


Sincerely Yours

by Crazythatcounts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Piratelock, Pirates, mormor, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:23:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazythatcounts/pseuds/Crazythatcounts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Commodore Greg Lestrade is breaking all the rules courting one Mycroft Holmes. But when Sherlock comes to him for his assistance, he has to go, leaving Mycroft with just a hope, a prayer, and a sackful of late arriving mail. (Mystrade centric, with implied Johnlock and MorMor)</p><p>For the The Mystrade and Mormor Incentive Initiative. Piratelock AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dear Mr. Holmes

_Dear Mr. Holmes,…_

He started every letter like that. Dear Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes… it was terribly, terribly formal. But, he really couldn’t put anything else, now could he? Even after two years, two bloody long, wonderful, mildly terrible years, he still had to start them Mr. Holmes. It wasn’t every day an English Diplomat was receiving clandestine letters from a Commodore in the English Navy. Especially with them both being male. 

“Dear Mister Holmes…” He read aloud to himself, scratching at his head. He’d never been terribly good at penning letters, to be perfectly honest. The fact that he was writing letters at all would surprise most of the people that knew him. Commodore Lestrade was a man that liked being face to face. He was more confident, face to face. He could tell when he needed to look threatening, or more demure. Though, he imagined, thoughtfully tapping his pen against his lips, he probably never looked very demure at all, all quaffed in blue and brass, large hat with the feather and all that. But these were different. He and Mr. Holmes, less formally called Mycroft - though the Commodore was loath to admit he knew as such in any company but private – had been meeting discreetly and privately going on two years in a few weeks. The meetings had begun as meetings do, private but civil, two men of dissimilar minds finding themselves interested in each other. 

Physically, it hadn’t progressed much further than that. The occasional touch of hands, a hug once in private every so often, but Mycroft was a man of priorities, and his relationship status had to be kept private. No use for him if it got out that he had been witnessed holding hands or God forbid sharing a kiss with another man – he had a position to uphold! And Lestrade, oh my, he would be sacked if the witness recognized him. No good for either of them. 

But in words, oh, it had progressed meaningfully. They met only infrequently – the Commodore spent most of his time bouncing around the vast oceans, weeks and months away, and only had a little time back in port every so often to travel up to the Holmes abode and greet his infrequent but admired Mr. Holmes. But when they did meet, when they did set aside a day to wander the gardens, or walk along the shore, or take a trip to a remote market that Mycroft hadn’t bothered to visit and paroose around the stalls and treat themselves to the low-life for a change – the words they exchanged were anything but platonic. 

They’d finally said the big L word last time they met. Lestrade briefly considered signing his newest letter with it, but formalities were formalities, and if he couldn’t even use the man’s first name, then hang him by the neck until dead if he used the L word. That word was reserved for wives and maidens, not men. But they had said it none the less, resulting in a brief discussion of who was actually the maiden in their twisted relationship – they finally settled that Mycroft was the maiden, as he never left home, but the Commodore was all for visiting and winning his heart like a good suitor should – and a briefer exchange of rings. 

Lestrade reached up to touch the band hanging on a chain around his neck. He never wore any ring on his fingers, too easy for them to be lost. Especially one this special. Mycroft had pried it from his own fingers, in exchange for what had once been Lestrade’s first wife’s wedding band. No loss to him, of course, and the gold matched most anything Mycroft would wear, so it would be concealed easily among his attire. 

“I must again thank you…. No.” Lestrade scratched out the first sentence after he wrote it, the scribbles being a common occurrence. “I wish to again thank you for the ring I now wear about my person.” He nodded. That sounded nice. Very formal. But with hidden meaning. Some part of him liked writing these letters so formally – it was a bit of a game to see what he could conceal amid the words, what would get a rise out of Mycroft the next they met. “I wish I could be with you for this day, and I wish I could trust the post to get this letter to you on the date you know very well I mean.” 

“Sir?” It was a call from behind the Commodore’s closed door and a following knock, which nearly had the man spilling ink all over the letter. 

“Yes, Anderson?” The Commodore stood as his first mate entered. The man looked terribly, terribly irritated, and there was only one reason he would look so, so angry when addressing his superior. “Oh, don’t tell me. Sherlock’s back from his latest adventures.” 

“And not without injury.” Anderson acted like this was entirely something he’d expected, but both knew what he meant by the words. Sherlock was Mycroft’s brother, and a mild mannered pirate in name only. He sailed and made a mess of his ship and didn’t follow the Queen’s orders very well, but he was no robber and no petty criminal. If he had been, he would have been arrested ages ago, but Lestrade took pity on the man. It didn’t help keeping the younger Holmes alive got him in better sorts with his brother. But Sherlock was a man who was careful. He didn’t injure himself often. “It’s his new crewmate. John.” Anderson explained, unsure how to describe. That wasn’t a good sign, either. 

“Are they on board?” Lestrade asked, leaning against his desk. This boded ill for all of them. He had planned to spend his remaining days in port having a good time. Not tending to the ill men Sherlock had dragged on board his boat. Anderson nodded in reply. “Alright, alright. Give them a room and tend to the injured. I’ll come check on them in a bit. I’ve got a bit more… paperwork I need to finish up.” 

“Writing Mr. Holmes again?” Anderson asked, smiling a bit as he spied the letter. “Keep on that and people other than Sherlock might start thinking you and he have something going on.” 

“Get out.” The command was stern, but playful, and meaning no ill towards the other man. Anderson left, quietly, and with a sigh, Lestrade returned to his letter. 

~*~

“He’s still writing letters to my brother?” Sherlock didn’t wait for the approaching first mate to say anything, already seeing his answers in the set of Anderson’s shoulders. “Good lord, he’s terribly smitten. Nevermind that, help me get John on board.” Sherlock had, in his arms, a slightly limp and groaning body. The body in question was his sandy haired companion, John Watson, former navyman turned pirate. He was, well, in rough shape. Anderson might have argued against Sherlock’s words, defending his Commodore’s honor, but the injuries were more pressing, and he simply clenched his teeth and helped Sherlock haul the man on board. Bundled in Sherlock’s coat, John was terribly tiny, but that didn’t mean Anderson could carry him below decks all by himself – which meant he had to spend more time than entirely desired with Sherlock. 

“The Commodore likes writing letters.” Anderson finally said, between orders telling every crewman he saw what they needed - what supplies, what people, who needed to be where when, someone needs to tie up Sherlock’s ship before it goes drifting off into the harbor, you go get this, etcetera etcetera – as the pair carried John down the stairs. 

“No, he does not.” Sherlock responded quickly, giving Anderson a look that the man recognized – the one that was telling him to stop talking because he was an idiot. But Anderson was not an idiot, not really. He just wasn’t quite as intelligent as either of the Holmes brothers – but that didn’t mean he didn’t earn his place on this boat, god dammit! He opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock wasn’t having any of that. “Anderson, the Commodore only writes letters when the need is pressing, with the only exception being my brother. Having read one of the letters I can assure you he has had very little practice in assembling speech on paper, and that illustrates further his lack of strength in penning a letter. But he continues to send them anyway, and it is not because he enjoys it.” 

“Look, you.” Anderson paused, helping Sherlock hoist John onto a hammock that had been cleared for them. “I don’t _care_ what the Commodore does or does not enjoy. However I do care that you feel the need to invade his personal life, even if it is with your brother. The Commodore _enjoys writing letters_ and if you say any more on the matter I’ll personally put you in cuffs and send you to the brig.” Anderson crossed his arms. “You’re on the Commodore’s ship now, and as his right hand man you do as I say. I do not want you spreading rumors that our highest commanding officer might be _courting_ your brother, or any other such nonsense. To think such is an insult to not only the Commodore, but the English Navy and this ship as well. Do I make myself clear?” 

“Yes, _Captain_.” Sherlock sneered in reply, taking a moment to look over his companion as the crew set to work on him, fingers trailing through the hair on his forehead. “I would _never_ put your precious Commodore or any of your crew in a position that might be _compromising_.” The words had Sherlock turning, hands clasped behind his back, looking all the world to be in a position of more power than he actually was. He really was the lowest of the low on the ships rank, lower than the little kids that skittered about between the crew’s feet, doing the cleaning and whatnot. He was a pirate, after all. He had almost gotten a navy position, but turned it down. Too rigid. He couldn’t understand how Lestrade even enjoyed it. “Speaking of, where is Lestrade?”

“On his way.” Anderson replied, leading Sherlock back out on deck where they wouldn’t be in the way. “He had paperwork to finish – don’t you even _start_ – and he’d be along momentarily. Apparently the papers were urgent. If you’re here, with an injured party, I’d expect he’d want to be prepared to set sail as soon as possible.” The deck was bustling with crewmen, cleaning and scrubbing and making the ship ready to make way. They stood for a moment, watching patiently until Lestrade emerged from his cabin. Commanding and authoritative, he approached the pair, clutching a letter in his hands. 

“Anderson, make sure this gets sent off before we leave.” He said, and Anderson hopped to with a quick yes sir!, leaving Sherlock and Lestrade alone on the deck. If anyone were to look at them at that moment, they would see a Captain and a Commodore locked in a cold, steeled stare that didn’t let up, even for the distracting crew. “Come with me. We should talk in private.”

“About what, John or your letters to my brother?” Sherlock asked, almost a little sarcastic, following the man back behind closed doors. Once they were in private, however, the sarcasm fell. “It is vitally important I know, Lestrade.”

“Vitally important?” Lestrade poured himself a drink, offering one to Sherlock and getting a shake of the head. “What’s so bloody vital about it? I write letters. He responds. It’s… nothing.” 

“Greg.” And oh, there was Lestrade’s first name, and the man put his drink down because suddenly this wasn’t Sherlock being Sherlock. This was serious. “I come from an encounter with a pirate who you haven't even yet noticed, but should be on the top for the destructive chaos he causes. His name is Captain Jim Moriarty. He goes by many names in town and has never been so much as accused of piracy or the lot, but a few days ago, John and I got into a bit of a… scuffle with him.” 

“Scuffle?” Lestrade frowned. “What, he knick your black flag?” 

“He kidnapped John for a time and attempted to blow me up. I pulled my rifle on him. We have a… connection, if I may.” Sherlock’s lip twitched in what might be a smile. “He is a ruthless man, Lestrade. More ruthless than any pirate you have arrested in your career. You know of the name Blackbeard? He would shrink in terror at what Jim Moriarty does to the seas. The man is a mastermind.” Sherlock paced over to Lestrade’s shelves of books and started to pick at the titles. “He is as much a spider as he is a man, and he was very verbal in what he would do to me, my family, and my friends if I were to cross paths with him again. Because of this pirate, Greg, not only is John still in danger, but my brother is as well. So I ask you again – the letters to Mycroft.” He paused, and a smirk crossed his lips when Lestrade didn’t balk at the use of his first name. “Are they what I believe them to be?”

Lestrade paused, clutching at his glass with a white knuckled grip. Mycroft was in danger from a pirate? The man barely set foot at sea. Lestrade was fairly sure Mycroft couldn’t even swim. Why would a pirate have any reason to hurt someone who had no way to chase or capture them? “Sherlock, I have no reason to believe this pirate that I have never heard of has any reason to hurt Mr. Holmes.” 

“He wants to get to me.” Sherlock said, seriously. “He wants to ruin me, and he knows about my brother. He said he was willing to harm Mycroft if it would mean I would break for him. So I ask again – are those letters what I believe them to be? If they are you are also in danger, for I fear Moriarty would know of your secrets.”

“He couldn’t---!” The shout was out before Lestrade could think about it, and he quickly cut himself off, but it was too late. Sherlock chuckled. 

“As I expected. To make it known, Lestrade, I don’t terribly _care_ what you and my brother do behind closed doors. But he is in danger as are you, and I felt you should for one know, and for two I thought I could better enlist you to help me take down this pirate if you knew.” Sherlock crossed his arms. “He has personally wronged me, my crew, and is willing to personally wrong you and Mycroft. Will you help?”

“Of course.” Lestrade sighed, speaking after a long moment of silence. Of course he couldn’t hide the details from Sherlock. He could barely hide his fancy from his interest. It was a family thing, he expected. Both of the Holmes boys were exceedingly intelligent and observant to a fault. “Of course. But I request a day before we set sail again. I imagine John would appreciate the rest, and…” He paused. Well, he could tell Sherlock now, he thought. “I would like to take the day to visit your brother.” 

“By all means. But remember, every day not spent sailing Moriarty gets father ahead of us.” Sherlock nodded. There was a brief moment of silence. “Do not think I would tell anyone, Lestrade. I have no interest in gossip or divulging secrets.”

“Thank you.” Lestrade sighed. Quietly, he went for his hat, perched on the back of his chair. He straightened his uniform, looking to Sherlock with a small smile. “Should I take this conversation as getting your blessing?” The only response was a hum, disinterested. Lestrade chuckled, putting his hat on. “I’ll take that as a yes. If you see Anderson, tell him I’ll be back by morning.” He nodded, heading for the door. 

The letter seemed unnecessary now. Oh well, it just meant he’d be writing a lot more when he was away.


	2. Oh Commodore, My Commodore

The house was large and imposing, a multi-winged structure with all sorts of fancy adornments – molding, arches, flying buttresses, whatever those were. Lestrade never really liked the ride up to the house. While the driveway wasn’t as long as it could be, it was still long and winding and left him too much time to think about all the rooms in that house. Mycroft lived alone, so many of the rooms went unused, and the empty spaces just begged to be filled. Lestrade wondered if they made Mycroft feel as lonely as they made him feel. He wondered, after that, if Mycroft ever cared enough to feel lonely in that house. 

The carriage pulled to a stop, letting Lestrade out in front of the house, and with a cheery wave it was vanishing back down the drive. Lestrade straightened his jacket, his waistcoat, his hat. Everything was in order. He coughed. God, he was nervous. Usually he’d call beforehand, make arrangements to meet, but this was too hastily thought out. Would he be mad? He had to chance it. 

The knock sounded very loud, and a thrill rushed down Lestrade’s veins. Was Mycroft alone? Was he even there? But no, he was there, as the door opened a moment later, a servant inviting the Commodore inside. Lavish, like usual, all rich colors and sparse decoration. He didn’t have to wait long, the other man coming down the stairs after only a few moments. Drawn up in browns and reds, tight waistcoat and matching cane, Lestrade had to stop himself from approaching the man right then and there and giving him a good old fashioned snog. 

“Ah, Commodore. I wasn’t expecting you.” The words were soft, welcoming but surprised, covered with a small smile and a tilt of the head. Lestrade smiled. He liked seeing the other surprised. It was a rare emotion to see. The slight raise of eyebrows, the soft _oh_ on his lips. Usually Mycroft was like his brother, so very aware ahead of time, that rarely anything surprised him. Lestrade didn’t reply, watching the other descend, and Mycroft picked up on the sag of his shoulders and the crease in his brow. “Is something the matter?” 

“May we speak in private?” Lestrade asked, glancing at the servant still waiting at the door. Not that he minded, but the other might. Mycroft frowned, stopping at the bottom of the stairs and looking at Lestrade with regret and disappointment. 

“Commodore, I was at tea with some very important people. Can this not wait?” Mycroft asked, and though he was refusing, it was soft, as kind as it could get. Lestrade’s face slipped into a frown, a soft one, a nervously desperate one, which only worried Mycroft further. 

“It’s urgent. Please. I imagine your guest wouldn’t mind five minutes without you?” Lestrade was begging now, and he knew it. But he needed this. He needed to see him, to speak to him. If what Sherlock had said was true, they were sailing off into what could be a fatal occurrence at worst, and at the least Mycroft was in danger. Lestrade could not in good conscience sail off and not at least alert the man of his impending doom. 

“Alright. But not long. We can walk in the gardens a moment.” Mycroft nodded, leading Lestrade down a long hallway. It opened up into a tall area full of flowers, a garden, with hedges and intricately detailed sculptures. They walked a moment, each lost in their own thoughts and each other, until they came upon a bench. It was _the_ bench, their bench, the bench they had spent many hours together sitting, talking, holding hands, disguised beneath the hedges and flowers. Mycroft sat, patting the space beside him, but Lestrade refused to sit. He was too worried now, had too long to think about it. Think about what a pirate no one knew about could do to Mycroft while they were away. He almost regretted promising to leave. “Gregory… if you would only inform me what is the matter I could help.”

“You’re in danger, I have to leave tomorrow and this time I might not come back.” Lestrade spat out quickly, needing to have it said. He looked at Mycroft, desperately, needing the man to understand, understand why the words had to be said that way. “Sherlock says there’s a pirate we don’t yet know about and that pirate might want to hurt you. He wants Sherlock in pain, and he’d hurt you to do so.” Lestrade took off his hat, holding it to keep him still, centered. No, no need to show Mycroft how much this worried him, even though the man probably already knew. But the façade was comforting, and he kept it up. “I thought you’d appreciate the warning.” 

“Gregory. Please sit.” Mycroft smiled softly, patting the bench again, and this time Lestrade sat, still holding his hat tightly. “I know you are worried for me. But do remember, I am surrounded by multitudes of important people and servants. If anyone where to get close to me without my consent, more than I would know, and there is no chance any pirate can hurt me.” Mycroft glanced around briefly before resting his hand on Lestrade’s knee. “There is some other thing that worries you, not just my safety. Is it that you might not come back, as you so gracefully said?”

“Mmm. You are too smart for your own good, you know that? And cheeky, too.” And Lestrade chuckled, a nervous gesture, a cover. “I’m just – I’m going to have to leave quickly. Sherlock’s seeking my help voluntarily. He either needs me specifically, or he needs the manpower I provide, and either one means whatever he’s going against isn’t the easiest pirate we’ve ever faced. I am rightfully worried I might not return.”

“Which is why you were so desperate to see me.” Mycroft finished, watching Lestrade’s hand come to rest on his own. “You did not want to leave without telling me you might not come back, is that it?” 

“Yeah, well. Now that you say it, it sounds stupid.” Lestrade laughed again, this time more genuine. 

“It’s not stupid. I feel very honored I am the one you want to spend your time with before you leave on a journey which could kill you. Though I highly doubt it would.” Mycroft chuckled as well, removing his hand softly and leaving Lestrade’s hand feeling cold. “You are a very brave and resourceful man. I would be surprised if any pirate could kill you. I would be surprised if _anything_ could kill you, to be honest.”

“Mm.” Lestrade hummed. “I just wanted to make sure we didn’t-didn’t leave each other without knowing it might be the last, you know? Even if it’s brief. …..Oh, and Sherlock knows. I thought you’d want to know that, too.” He chuckled. “He realized when I was writing you a letter.” 

“Yes, well. I’m surprised he didn’t notice sooner.” Mycroft reached out again, fingers gently finding the ring around Lestrade’s neck, and Lestrade gulped at the hand so close to his face. Slowly, he reached up, taking the hand in his own and planting a kiss on the knuckles. “Now Gregory.” 

“We’re alone and I might not come back from this trip. I can kiss your hand.” Lestrade kissed his knuckles again for emphasis, lips brushing over the gold ring. “It’s a gesture. It doesn’t have to be romantic, even if I intend it that way.” Lestrade didn’t let the hand go, reveling in the touch to his face. 

“Okay, stop being cheeky now.” Mycroft laughed, softly, and that was enough of a reward for Lestrade to let go and sit back, smiling at the other. They sat there together, Mycroft reaching out to inspect Lestrade’s hands softly. It was a quiet moment, one they rarely had together, and it was nice. The garden was shaded, guarded, safe, and the two of them had spent many an hour talking and holding hands behind the high hedges. It was their private place, their sanctuary, their hidden sanctum. No one dared bother either of them when they retreated back there – if it was because the servants knew, the pair couldn’t really tell. 

“Mycroft.” Lestrade said, finally, still letting the other inspect his hands. Mycroft didn’t look up, thumb working over the calluses there, the pads of his fingers. “I just wanted you to know I love you.” At that, Mycroft did look up, brow confused for the briefest moments before a small smile crossed his features. 

“Gregory.” He chided, softly, but the other held up a hand, and for once in his life Mycroft did as he was told and kept quiet. 

“No, I need to say it. I know you’re still…. Touchy about it. I’m still nervous saying it.” Lestrade laughed. “But I need to say it. Because…. If I say it, and I mean it, and you say it in return and mean it, I might actually be able to go out and focus on this pirate and not fret every night wondering if you know how I feel. I mean, I know you know. I said it before. But I can’t feel that just saying it the once is enough. I want to end letters to you with it.” 

“You know you cannot do that.” Mycroft frowned, softly, and the other nodded, reaching out and taking Mycroft’s hands in his own. 

“I know. I know. But… what if we had a code?” Lestrade looked up, smiling a little, licking at his lips. “Something I _could_ put down that no one would notice as anything else. Maybe… since I always sign my letters the same way, maybe that could be our code.” 

“So… Sincerely Yours would mean… what? With love?” Mycroft’s face shifted back to a smile, and it was clear he rather liked the idea. Lestrade was more obviously overjoyed he wasn’t shot down instantly. 

“Yeah. And you can sign them that, too, and no one would be the wiser, and then I could really be telling you those words every time I send you a letter.” He paused, chuckled. “I imagine I’ll be sending you a lot of letters.” 

“And I will read every one and keep them safe and think of them often.” Mycroft replied, standing. “Now, I know you need to return to your vessel and I must return to my tea.” He watched Lestrade stand, and was ultimately surprised when the other threw his arms around Mycroft, holding him there tightly. Mycroft returned the hug, if a little hesitantly. “Gregory, now really.”

“What?” Lestrade grinned. “I can’t hug you goodbye?” His hands didn’t leave Mycroft’s shoulders, head cocked slightly to the side. “No kiss goodbye?” 

“Gregory, please.” Mycroft was laughing, and if he hadn’t been Lestrade might have actually thought he was in trouble for the gesture. Mycroft was not a man for hugs. Lestrade did however let go, letting the other back off and straighten his waistcoat, knowing brief contact was better than trying to prolong it. 

“Well, then. I’m off.” Lestrade nodded, putting on his hat again. He looked to the drive, and then to Mycroft, and a part of him was desperate to stay. Screw Sherlock and his mystery pirate, Lestrade wanted to protect his maiden in the way he was best at – by being with Mycroft, not being at sea. He could stay for days, weeks even, and keep Mycroft safe. But the rest of him knew better than to think he would get anything done to help anyone staying on shore. Lestrade was a man born for and made of the sea. He couldn’t remain here – he would go mad. He loved the ocean just as much as he loved Mycroft, and it made things like this so hard. Because his love of the sea was what kept them separated for so long, and made goodbyes so hard. He needed to go. He just didn’t want to. He never did.

He looked at Mycroft, nodding softly, tugging at his coat, trying to avoid looking at the other. Goodbyes were always the worst part. When would he come back? He didn’t know. He never knew, and it always broke him to not know, to promise soon and come back after months rather than weeks. He knew it probably broke Mycroft in a small way, but the man was made of ice. He never got upset when they said goodbye, and it was almost worse that way. With a deep breath, and a bobbing resolute nod, Lestrade turned, stiffening his back before taking a step for the drive, determined not to look back, or break down. “Commodore.” The call was soft, and Lestrade found himself turning without realizing he had acted on his instincts, seeing the man he had professed so much adoration for giving him a brisk salute. There were no tears on Mycroft’s face, but there was certainly some welling emotion, something repressed. Mycroft’s hand was shaking. Lestrade smiled, swallowed, saluting back, as he was taught. They remained like that for a moment, before Mycroft was the one to break the salute, putting his hand back in his pocket. 

“Stay safe, Gregory.” He said, softly. Lestrade nodded, trying not to look at the other’s face, trying not to read anything there just in case it was too hard to leave when he did. 

“I will. For you.” He nodded, quickly taking off his hat in a gesture towards Mycroft, a bittersweet smile on his face. “Mr. Holmes.” He said, before returning his hat to its place and turning for the drive again, this time too determined not to turn back. He had to come back. He had no choice now. He’d promised. He started down the driveway, the winding length in front of him so vast now that he wasn’t in a carriage, but he didn’t mind. He was willing to walk it. He needed the time. He didn’t want to look like he’d been crying when he got back to his ship. He had a reputation to uphold, and a pirate to catch. And then, when he got back, and this Jim Moriarty was dead or in jail, he would have a nice long stay with Mr. Holmes and all would be well. 

He hoped.


	3. Come Sail Away

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_It has not yet been a full day since we last spoke, and yet I am already penning my first letter to you. I want you to know I will write a letter for every day I am away, and they will be sent off as I am able. I hope they reach you not only in due time, but in the correct order. I would not trust the mail to do as such if we pass further than the southern coasts._

_Sincerely Yours,  
Commodore Greg Lestrade_

He really had gone straight to his desk when he returned to his ship hours later. He had avoided Sherlock, avoided Anderson, and made straight for his room, locking the door behind him. Only when the letter was finished to his satisfaction did he let out a sigh, resigned that they would be leaving on the morning tide and there was nothing left to do about it. Standing, he placed the carefully sealed letter on the corner of his desk, making his way over to the only mirror on board the ship. 

He checked himself. Red eyes? No, good. No bags, no flushed cheeks. The walk had done him good, bought him time to process, and now he looked ready for action. Grey haired and lined, yes, but tough as nails and not willing to take anyone’s bullshit, like normal. Hopefully if Sherlock suspected anything, he would have the courtesy to keep it to himself for once. Nodding at himself in the mirror, Lestrade headed back on deck, happily greeted by his hard working crew. 

“We should be ready to sail on the tide, sir.” Anderson said, approaching his Commodore with a smile. “Everything is in order.” And that smile, Lestrade knew immediately that smile wasn’t good at all, because Captain Sherlock “Pain in the Arse” Holmes was on board their ship and Anderson barely cracked a smile at the mention of his name, let alone those times when Sherlock found himself on board the ship. 

“What did you do to him?” Lestrade asked, with all the exasperation of a single parent with several growing young boys that always seemed to make too much trouble. Anderson tried to look appalled at the accusation, but he was smiling too hard to fake it. 

“Nothing, sir, nothing at all. Nothing severe, anyway.” Anderson shrugged, adding the second bit as an afterthought. “Only the consequences the acting Captain, myself, felt were necessary. I did give him a warning, sir.” And now he was placing blame, and he wasn’t explaining what happened, and a little part of Lestrade actually thought Anderson might have drowned the pirate. Or at least thrown him overboard, which was just as bad as Sherlock swam just about as well as his brother. Which wasn’t well at all. And no one ever suspected a pirate couldn’t swim – fancy that, a sailor who spends all day at sea unable to even tread water? Impossible. Unless you had the last name Holmes. 

“ _What did you do to him?_ ” Lestrade was firmer this time, actually legitimately worried, and Anderson finally seemed to break beneath that smile, unable to ignore his superior’s commands. 

“Locked him in the brig. I told him if he kept on about you and your letter writing and your apparent infatuation with his brother I would personally lock him in the brig, and when he refused to stop, I did just as I told him I would.” Anderson was still smiling. 

“Right.” Lestrade rubbed at his face. “How long has he been there?” 

“Just after you left, sir.” Anderson nodded. “A few hours, at least. We have kept him fed, but he refuses to stop running his insufferable mouth.” 

“Alright. He _is_ to be released before we leave, is that understood?” Lestrade shook his head. It was one thing for Anderson to put Sherlock’s life in danger, but, well…. A few hours in the brig might do the pirate some good. Make him realize running his mouth about things he doesn’t need to know is bad for his safety. And Sherlock wasn’t dead, and he was being fed, and Anderson was happy, and Lestrade just couldn’t take that from the other. Anderson was his best man, Captain and right hand officer. If a few character building hours in the brig was all it took to make Anderson happy, then Sherlock could stay. For a while longer, at least. “And make sure he doesn’t hurt himself in there.” 

“Aye aye, Commodore.” Anderson was grinning, broadly, and it made Lestrade chuckle to see. Maybe if Sherlock could learn something from this adventure, then everyone would sail happily. If not, he had figured out a good way to keep his crew in good straights when things got bad, at least. 

“In the meantime, is John awake?” Lestrade started for the crew’s quarters where John was being cared for. “I want to talk to him. See if all this pirate business is actually as Sherlock says it is. I know the pirate is generally truthful and not prone to exaggeration, but whatever or whomever it was hurt John.” He didn’t need to say it. John was Sherlock’s first mate and only real friend. “I can’t be too sure he just wants to use my armada to exact some form of revenge.” 

“I wouldn’t put it past him.” Anderson nodded. “John’s awake and talking. Still not in a good way, but he’ll at least be up and about by morning when we sail.” He followed Lestrade down into the crew’s quarters, making their way past hammocks and bustling crewmen. The hammock they sought was at the end of the line, tucked away in a corner. John was asleep, bandaged sparsely but still covered in bruises, curled up in the hammock and clutching at his blanket. Lestrade woke him by poking the hammock with his boot, making the sleeping man jump, nearly fall. 

“Good evening, John.” Lestrade smiled, watching as the other man took a moment to get over his panic and settle. When John did, he started laughing softly. “I see you’re certainly feeling better.” 

“Yes, well. A good night’s sleep can do that for a man. How’s Sherlock?” John sat up as much as he could in the hammock, looking around for his Captain. “Where is he?”

“Let’s… not talk about that for the moment, shall we?” Lestrade chuckled, awkwardly, pulling up a crate and sitting on it. The look on John’s face was not pleased, but the man left the conversation be for the moment. “I actually want to talk to you about the pirate that you encountered.”

“Sherlock’s already probably told you everything there is to say.” John relaxed back into the hammock, watching Anderson take his leave, leaving them more or less alone. “Unless you don’t believe him.”

“I would really love to confirm his story with someone who isn’t…. emotionally invested.” Lestrade smiled. “I don’t want to go bouncing around the oceans chasing a ghost. So, if you would kindly just… recount the encounter in your own words?” Lestrade shifted where he sat. “Just so we know exactly what we’re up against.”

“We were sailing in the Caribbean.” John started, softly, fiddling with his blanket. He wet his lips. “Coming back up towards the English coast for a stop off. I think Sherlock just wanted to get a few more funds from his brother so he could feed his need for experiments. Gulls weren’t doing it anymore for him. We saw another boat off our port side early one morning. It wasn’t flying a flag, and it was approaching with speed. It only hoisted it’s colors when it attacked – black flag, a snake wrapped around a gun and an hourglass in red, colors I didn’t recognize. They didn’t attempt to sink us. But they boarded us, subdued us both, and the next thing I really remember was being tied to their mast. The Captain was Jim Moriarty. Sherlock probably told you his name already. Small for a sailor, dark haired. Cruel.” John looked up, frowning at Lestrade. “Five days. It took five days for Sherlock to find his ship. Barely got me back alive, nearly lost his own vessel. It’s why we need you. One ship alone will not be able to find him if he knows we’re on his tail. We need your armada.” 

Lestrade sat there, nodding along, listening intently. This pirate did sound awful, and John was no liar. Sherlock might have made bigger claims that he could account for, but John was down to earth. This did bode ill for all of them, then, if that was the case. If a pirate was willing to just kidnap John in order to hurt Sherlock, without taking ship or gold or another’s life, then the things he would be willing to do to Mycroft would be just as severe. Lestrade put a hand on his face. There was but one course of action – set sail and find this pirate before he found anyone else. “Can you tell me anything about him besides what he did? Any crew, names?” 

“He had a first mate – Sebastian Moran.” John nodded. “We didn’t catch the name of his ship, but Sherlock asked around in port when we stopped once to get medical supplies and we found out apparently the name wouldn’t be much help because Jim Moriarty isn’t known for keeping a ship intact for more than a month. We could locate the ship, get close and the next thing we know it’s sunk and we would need to start again. But he’s now among the higher factions of pirates, according to rumors. The big Pirate Lords know his name.” John shrugged. “I don’t know if that’s worth believing, considering pirates aren’t exactly the best at telling full truths, but at least we have a place to start.”

“John, why did you ever leave the navy? We could use a man like you on my ship.” Lestrade laughed. He knew why, but the sentiment was still shared all the same. “Right. We’re setting sail on the morning tide. Thank you for that. Now I can at least rest a little easy knowing I’m not going on just the word of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mm. Speaking of, what did you do to him?” John asked, giving Lestrade a look. A look that knew better than to think Sherlock was just avoiding his bedside for Sherlock reasons. 

“Anderson put him in the brig. Apparently he was running his mouth about me and his brother.” Lestrade shrugged, standing, shooting John a soft smile. 

“Oh, yeah. He was telling me all about your infatuation with him and the letters.” John chuckled. “I’m surprised he wasn’t drowned for it, with how red Anderson got.” 

“Yeah, well. If he was drowned, Mycroft might have killed more than just Anderson.” Lestrade replied, shaking his head. “You rest. We’re setting sail with the morning tide. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.”

~*~

Morning sun brought a good tide and a brisk wind. It was perfect sailing weather. Sherlock was out of the brig, standing on the aft railing, John at his side. Lestrade didn’t feel like bothering them up there as the ship pulled out of port and began its way out to sea. There were five ships in the armada, and each would take a different course around the world, communicating by letter as to the location of Jim Moriarty. If anyone found him, they were all to return to the English shore where he would be tried by a jury of the king’s countrymen. That was, if the man’s peers didn’t hang him first. 

Eventually, Lestrade worked his way up to the bow deck, resting his arms on the railing. The sea stretched out before him, clear and blue as a robin’s fresh egg, the sky still pink with the dawn. A fresh breeze was taking them out fast, and the salt air was filling his lungs in a way the stale air of the port never did. This – this was why, no matter how much he loved Mycroft Holmes, he could never spend a week or a month in that tiny house. The open air, the sea, the gentle rock of waves at night to lull him to sleep – that was his life. That was his paradise, his heaven. Only severe injury or death could keep him from the open ocean at the best of times. He was a seaman, above all else. Sometimes, he regretted that fact. Regretted that something so simple as his love of the sea could keep the two of them apart. But, one day, maybe Mycroft could join him for a journey. And then he could spend time with both of his loves, and stay on land for an extended period in exchange. It was a small hope, and a futile one, but a good thought none the less.

Once at sea, the ships parted ways. The flagship, Duchess, was to head south-eastward, tailing around the southern tip of Africa and eventually greeting two of the four sister ships on the China Coast. “Commodore.” Anderson called, from the lower decks, catching Lestrade’s attention. “Sherlock’s playing his bloody fiddle again. Direct orders for him to cease?” Anderson sounded hopeful, but as Lestrade looked up, he could hear the tune drifting over the ship. Light, airy, happy – no, no. He liked it. 

“No, Anderson, let him be. If you don’t like it, you have a hammock and a pillow to shove over your head.” Lestrade called back. “We’ve got a long journey ahead. Might as well start off with some good music.” He didn’t watch Anderson stomp off, apparently to go get his pillow to jam over his head. The music was nice, soothing, lulling the crew into a complacent sort of trance – going about their duties with a soft hum on their lips and no complaints – which was better than could be expected the first day of a voyage. Everything was calm, and the sea stretched before them, with promise on the horizon. They just had to find one ship, one ship, capture the crew and it was all over. No big deal. Hell, Lestrade might be home in a few weeks. 

He sighed, stretching and making his way to the aft deck. He found Sherlock still playing, John asleep against his legs, lulled into the slumber by the calm of the boat and the music. Sherlock didn’t pause when Lestrade approached him, just barely looking up in acknowledgement that the man was even there. “At some point you do need to give that a rest or Anderson might actually attempt to drown you.” 

“Anderson doesn’t have the courage to attempt to drown me as the consequences for his actions are greater than the reward of my death.” Sherlock replied, but the violin left his shoulder and he shifted, sitting down and letting John use his arm as a pillow. 

“He did lock you in the brig. I don’t know, I think he’s getting to that point. I’d just be careful. It’s no good if you die because you pissed off my Captain. We’d never find Moriarty without you.” Lestrade leaned against the railing. 

“You would, but you wouldn’t know it was him.” Sherlock picked at his coat, looking up at Lestrade briefly with that face that meant he was figuring the other out. . “You’re also worried that if I die or get grievously injured enough to stop looking he might take his frustration out on my brother.” 

“You think he might?” The thought hadn’t actually crossed Lestrade’s mind, that if Sherlock died or hell, stopped looking Moriarty might actually take his revenge on Mycroft. 

“Oh, he would. I wouldn’t put it past him to take revenge on Mycroft anyway. Though I wouldn’t worry too much. Physical pain would be down on the bottom rung of things he could do to Mycroft. He would probably prefer something more clever.” Sherlock set the violin in his lap and picked at the strings. 

“So he’s like you then. Bloody stubborn and obsessed with being the cleverest maiden on the high seas.” Lestrade’s head made a motion that suggested he was rolling his eyes, but Sherlock didn’t notice or care. 

“More or less. But more inclined towards explosives and mayhem, I’d imagine.” Sherlock shrugged. 

“Yeah, well. Don’t provoke Anderson, then, alright? Don’t want to give him due reason to start hurting people.” Lestrade sighed, chuckled wearily, and began to descend to his cabin. The ship was on its way, Sherlock was more or less behaving, and they had barely begun. Even with the warnings, Lestrade couldn’t help but feel good. Maybe he’d have luck after all. 

But right now, he had a letter to write.


	4. I'll Get You My Pretty and Your Little Boat, Too

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_It is the seventh day of our voyage. Having stopped in a few ports along the nearby coast, we have gotten word that the pirate which we seek is currently anchored in a small port just off the coast of South Africa. It’s only rumors, but we’re heading that way. Who knows, I might actually be home in time for dinner!_

_Sincerely Yours,  
Commodore Greg Lestrade_

~*~

It was agonizingly hot. Hot and still and miserable. The _Marbled Hornet_ was dead in the water, and the crew was starting to roast. Well, most of the crew. The Captain and his First Mate were all snug and cosy inside, and while being inside did little to stifle the heat, it was the principle of the matter. While the Captain got to relax the crew were ordered to try and coax some movement out of those sails, and in that dead calm that was entirely impossible. 

“We’re still not moving.” The Captain said. He was sprawled on his bed, naked, and even that wasn’t helping the heat. “We’re still just floating here.” 

“The crew is trying.” The First Mate replied. He’d remained more or less fully clothed and was currently sheltering beside the bed in the shade and cleaning his rifle. “If we don’t move in a minute I’m going out there and passing out water.” 

“Whyyyyy?” The reply was a whine, the Captain rolling over onto his side so he could see his companion. “It’ll just waste water, Sebby. What if we’re stuck here for forty days and because of your _kindness_ and _compassion_ you end up leaving us with thirty nine days of water?” 

“We’ll still live, sir.” Sebby, better known as Sebastian, reached up to ruffle the Captain’s hair. “There’s a port not too far to our south. We could make it in a day or so, and we can go two or three without water, so we’ll be perfectly fine.” He sighed. “Just give the crew a break. We won’t be able to sail very far if they’re all dead.”

“Alright, alright.” The Captain grumbled. He stumbled to his feet and headed for the cabin door, forgoing clothes. Fuck clothes. All they did was hold in heat and he was already too hot. However, he grabbed his pistol from a small table to the side door. Just because he was nude didn’t mean anyone could snicker or guffaw at him for it. He flung open the cabin door, leaning against the doorframe, too hot to even support himself. “Gentlemen! You’re done for the day. Scurry off and do whatever it is you do when you’re not following my orders.” 

The crew, of course, stared. They didn’t move for a long moment, most of them a little taken aback that their Captain would really not care about putting on pants. However, a shot to the deck had them scrambling. Their Captain’s habits were not worth getting shot over. Having done his job, the Captain retreated into the shade of his cabin, flopping back on his bed with a huff. “Lazy sods.” He grumbled. “I’m tired of them. I want a new crew.” 

“You just gathered your _new crew_ two months ago.” Sebastian replied, nonchalantly. His Captain begging for a new crew was nearly a daily occurrence at this point. He was not a man to suffer the same crew for very long. Something always bothered him about them. Once it was because the majority were too pudgy. Majority being five out of a hundred, but Sebastian had learned when to pick his arguments over the crew and that wasn’t a good time. 

“Yes, well. I want another one. This one is broken.” The Captain complained. “They can’t get this blasted thing moving.” 

“Jim, that’s not their fault.” Sebastian replied, earning a wack to the head for using the Captain’s first name. Jim glared. “Look, we’re fine where we are. We have yet to get any word that Sherlock is doing much of anything about us. A day or two in dead calm isn’t going to hurt us too much.” 

“Mm.” Jim pressed his face against the bed. “He better be moving. I don’t want to have to sail up to England just to get him started. That’s borrrrring. I want him to chase me around the oceans. That’s more fun!” He squirmed. “Torturing him up there is boring.” 

“You could go after his brother.” Sebastian replied, reaching up to press his hand against Jim’s hair. Jim hummed softly at the contact. “You could exploit something of his and bring him down without even being there. I know you. You should know something about Mycroft Holmes that might drag him through the mud. Or we could do it the old fashioned way and _actually_ drag him through the mud. Personally I’d enjoy the second.” 

“You just want to tie people to carriages.” Jim replied, not lifting his head. His voice was muffled because of that fact. “Mm. I know quite a few things I could use, but at the moment none of them pan out _because we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere_!” Jim rolled over at the words, his shout coming out more powerful now that he wasn’t being muffled. He lay on his back on the bed for a moment, rubbing at his face with his hands, stretching the skin out almost comically. 

Sebastian was going to reply, but paused as there was a knock on the cabin door. “C-Captain?” It was a crewman, probably the one that pulled the short straw, and obviously very nervous. “There’s a messenger from port, sir. Needs you urgently.” Jim sighed dramatically, standing and heading for the door again. 

“Jim.” Sebastian chided, sternly. He stood, crossing his arms as Jim turned to him. 

“ _What?_ ” It was exasperated and annoyed, and Sebastian knew he was treading very thin lines with Jim at this point. 

“At least put on your pants this time.” Sebastian sighed. “If he’s coming from port he’s got news of some sort and you don’t want him going back and telling the world Captain Jim Moriarty forgot his trousers.” He watched as Jim rolled his eyes, grumbling and heading for the pile of clothes he had shed earlier. Trousers went on, as well as a shirt for good measure, before the two of them were heading out into the hot sun. Part of Sebastian actually expected his Captain to catch fire, but it didn’t happen. Instead, the short, dark headed man strode calmly over to a shaking waif of a boy standing on their deck. 

“Message for Captain Jim Moriarty.” The boy said, surprisingly good at keeping the stutter from his nervous voice. 

“Yes?” Jim purred, smile suddenly predatory, silky, and it was then that the boy started really shaking, visibly trembling at the look in the eyes of a man not too much taller than he was. “Well? Get on with it!”

“I have been told to inform you that Sherlock Holmes had left England a week ago and he is traveling on board a naval vessel headed for here.” It was spoken quickly, almost spat out in Moriarty’s face, but the quickness didn’t matter. Jim had caught all of it, and his smile broadened, almost split his face ear to ear. If one wasn’t looking one would assume that smile held fangs. 

“So he is giving chase? Good, good.” Jim cooed, patting the boy on the shoulder. The boy looked like he wanted to run from the contact, like he expected claws to dig into his skin and tear him to pieces. “Who else is aboard? His pet, Watson?”

“Yessir. And Commodore Greg Lestrade.” The waif replied, and oh that grin turned even more shark-like in a moment, hungry and needy. 

“The Commodore is with him?” Jim purred, drawing the boy close with his tightly gripped hand. “Commodore Greg Lestrade, the naval officer on the _Duchess_?” He was expectant, greedy for it, and at the confirming nod he was off again, heading for his cabin with a look Sebastian was mildly scared of. It screamed plans – ecstacy, rage, adrenaline – and it screamed _fun_. And not let’s take a trip to the fair fun, no. It screamed hanging entrails up like Christmas lights and drinking eggnog and rum from glasses made from human skulls fun. It was the kind of fun people had right before the virgin got sacrificed. Sebastian of course followed, ducking inside the cabin just before the door slammed. 

“Sir?” Sebastian asked, concerned as his Captain proceeded to step onto the bed, stepping over it and to the back window that looked out the ship’s stern. His fingers were steepled in front of him, barely touching his lips, and he didn’t actually seem to be looking anywhere for a long moment. “Jim.” 

“Shut up.” Jim snapped, but there was a smile on his face. It was a sly smile, a foxy smile, the smile of a panther speaking to a tender lamb. “You wanted me to go after Mycroft Holmes, so shut up and let me go after Mycroft Holmes.” 

“I thought you said you couldn’t—“ Sebastian started, but Jim’s high laugh cut him off. 

“No, no. Not before. But now the final piece is coming to _me_.” He purred. “It is apparent to most everyone these days that Mycroft Holmes over appreciates the company of a Commodore Greg Lestrade, a navy man who is already sailing to our doorstep. The plan is simple. Kidnap him. Kill him. And watch Mr. Holmes break under the strain of keeping up with it.” Jim chuckled. “And we can throw in some torture while we’re there. You can actually drag him under a carriage if you want.” 

“You didn’t need to bribe me to get me on your side.” Sebastian replied. “I’m willing to go on with you no matter what you want to do.” 

“Good man.” Jim grinned. “I might have had to kill you otherwise.” He giggled. “Now, first thing we must do is get this ship sailing!” He shook his head. “If we’re stranded here then we might as well give up the plan on principle. Then, you and I must sit down with a map. We must let them think they’re winning, gaining on us. Watch them in every port.” Jim sat, suddenly. “Keep track of them all the time. And when the time is right, we shall not only have Greg Lestrade, but his ship.”

“Sir, you know you can barely keep track of one ship.” Sebastian sat down next to him. 

“We’re not _keeping_ it. That’s _boring_.” Jim grumbled. “That’s what all pirates do, keep the boats they steal. No, we’re going to do so much more to it.” He grinned. “Mm. I’ll tell you as we get there, Sebastian. For now, daddy wants some private time. Commodore Lestrade isn’t going to torture himself, now is he?” He grinned, leaning up to press a hard, biting kiss to Sebastian’s neck. “Go and get the boat moving.” 

“Yessir.” Sebastian nodded, putting a comforting hand on Jim’s hair for a moment before standing. The cabin was silent behind him, and the crew was silent as he exited. He inhaled, smiled, and crossed his arms. “This boat should have been moving an hour ago!” He snarled, and the crew was back in action, getting their vessel underway for the voyage at hand. They had maybe a day head start, Sebastian thought. He noticed, while he was with Jim, that the other wasn’t concerned with what would happen if Sherlock caught them first. They would be letting them think they were winning, and what if that went too far?

He didn’t want to find out. 

“Get this ship on the move or I’ll just have to scale the mast and start using you as target practice!” Sebastian encouraged. He had decided, in the moments of thinking and watching the crew scurry to try and get anything out of the sails, that he would take it upon himself to keep them both safe. Jim didn’t seem too concerned with it. So he would be. He had to. Or no one else would.


	5. A Mighty Storm

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_We are still keeping pace with Moriarty. Sherlock has said he is most likely to travel around the Cape and up towards the East rather than attempt to sail into the open waters to our West. This is good news, as a trip around the Cape would mean he would be kept close to shore so when we capture him we aren’t faced with taking him down in the middle of the open sea._

_I have no fear of the Cape. We have fair winds and the faster vessel and we’ve been gaining. We’ll have him yet._

_Sincerely Yours,  
Commodore Greg Lestrade_

~*~

“Sir.” Anderson approached the Commodore softly. They were on the bow deck, watching the horizon. The Cape was to their port side now, as they were beginning to round the tip of Africa, following in the wake of their unseen enemy. The horizon was clear, unmarred by clouds, but by the way Anderson spoke, there was still something to fear. 

“Yes, Anderson?” Lestrade asked, turning to lean against the railing. He’d expected this. He’d seen the crew’s faces when he said where they were headed. He’d seen the looks they passed between each other, the chilled fear in them. 

“The crew are a bit… nervous.” Anderson looked guilty, like a child, like when a teen tells his parent his problems under the guise of another name, a random friend that happens to have this problem. “They, uh, they keep talking of going around the Cape. I’ve heard some of them talk of jumping ship, and others of mutiny.” Anderson looked at his Commodore, and while the guilt betrayed him, he remained standing fast, not fidgeting or worrying his clothing, and Lestrade respected that. “They speak of the legend of the Dutchman’s home on the Cape.” 

“The Dutchman being here is a myth.” Lestrade crossed his arms. “And even if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t seek our crew. He has no qualms with us.” Lestrade considered the Dutchman like he considered God – he didn’t really put forth much effort as to whether or not either was there, but he didn’t want to disrespect either at the same time. He was on mutual grounds with both. They would be on talking terms, at least. Well, that was, if God ever talked back. 

“Yes, well. I think it might be best if you give the crew a talk?” Anderson replied. “Myth or not, they’re still showing fear, and it would be a major hindrance if any of them jumped ship, or worse, mutinied against you, sir.” Anderson nodded. 

“Are you one of those that fear the Dutchman, Anderson?” Lestrade asked, smiling. 

“I—well.” Anderson frowned, slightly flustered by the sudden question. “I am not so much frightened by the Dutchmen’s presence on the Cape as by the fact that people are wont to say it. You know how sailors are. While they speak of myths they speak of them for a reason. The Dutchman is death, and if the ship itself does not exist there, there must at least be enough death along the Cape to warrant the idea.” Anderson sighed. “That is what I am in fear of.” 

“Rightly so.” Lestrade stepped forward, putting a hand on Anderson’s shoulder. “I’ll give the crew a talk. Go gather them on deck and we can settle this nonsense the right way, without a mutiny.” He nodded, watching the other head off to the main deck. It was quiet, the cape stretching in front of them and the open sea clear and bright. The crew assembled slowly, a little worried as to why the Commodore wanted to speak to them. Did he hear about the mutiny? Were they in trouble? They shifted on deck, the hundred or so of them filling the space and watching Lestrade lean against the railing. 

“So, you all probably know why you’re here.” Lestrade said, smiling, and there was a moment of ease that passed through the group – he was smiling so they probably weren’t in trouble. “As you all know, we’re sailing around the southernmost tip of Africa. Most of you have expressed in some form to my Captain, Anderson, that this scares you. You fear what is said to reside in the Cape’s currents, the Flying Dutchman.” He paused, watching the guilty faces for a long moment. “Now, fear is not an emotion to repress. Fear is a man’s greatest weapon. We are men of the King’s Navy. We are royal and duty bound to be courageous and gifted seamen, and all of you were handpicked for your skills and bravery. But there is no such thing as courage without fear.” Lestrade straightened, heading down the stairs so he was closer to his men. They shuffled closer. “Courage is not the absence of fear, but knowing you are scared and working through it anyway. So do not think it is shameful for you boys to feel fear. We are embarking on a dangerous journey. But know that as long as I am your Commodore, your fears should not hinder you from your duties on this ship. We are the bravest men in England and I expect my men to act as such.” He smiled. “If any of you have doubts and want to talk, I am very open to discussion of your fears. Do we have an understanding?” 

“Aye aye sir!” The crew cheered in reply, looking a little happier now. 

“Good! Now back to work! Just because we got all touchy-feely does not mean you’re off duty, sailors!” Lestrade shouted, half laughed, and the crew returned to their work, a little more chipper in their movements. Sherlock appeared from the diminishing crowd, approaching Lestrade through the movement. 

“You speak well. But you know there is more to fear than the Dutchman.” Sherlock said, not smiling. “We are highly likely to run into a storm front if we continue much farther. Are you sure it is not prudent to change course and take a wider berth around the Cape?” 

“Yes. Our ship is faster than Moriarty’s, for the moment, but not much faster. If we detour we’ll lose every inch of gain we’ve covered in the past few days, and that’s enough room for him to slip off and gather another ship. No, we’re staying on course. Besides, my crew can handle a little storm or two. We’re seamen, Captain Holmes, not children.” Lestrade shook his head. “Though if you wish you can take shelter in my quarters in the invent of a storm.” 

“I do not need such sheltering.” Sherlock replied, a little grumpy. They both knew that was a lie – he couldn’t swim, he would be useless in a storm. High winds were great about washing sailors overboard and if it was Sherlock he would surely drown. 

“No, but I’m insisting.” Lestrade looked to John, who had been observing the conversation quietly behind them. “John, for his safety, do keep him inside.” 

“Don’t go crying to John!” Sherlock snapped. 

“You don’t have to follow my orders, Sherlock, and I know you wouldn’t even if you did. But John actually would.” Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Stop being your brother and just keep to my quarters if we run into foul weather. I’m not going back to him telling him you drowned because you wouldn’t take shelter just to spite me.” He sighed. “Besides, there’s no foul weather to be seen yet. So relax.” 

“You’re very complacent about all this.” Sherlock muttered. “Possible bad weather, a terrified crew. And yet you’re chipper.”

“Yes, I am. As should you be.” Lestrade smiled. “We’re gaining on them.”

~*~

It had come out of nowhere. They had turned more northward and the sky began to boil with clouds. Quick and dark, they were on them with heavy rains and high winds. They had had just enough time to batten down the important things, secure barrels and supplies and tie up the sails before they were rolling over high waves. It was like hell itself was released upon the sky, lightning flickering across the clouds, the waves giving the boat a quality like flight as it was tossed around the sea. The only hands spared were Sherlock’s, locked tight in Lestrade’s quarters to keep him alive. 

The wind howled at them as they tried to keep the ship on course. Waves splashed over the deck, and rain pelted them with a venomous ferocity. Every rock of the ship had the seamen testing their legs and their stomachs, the sway so violent not everyone could stay standing. The water was cold, and the rain was cold, and it was a miserable time of it. 

Lestrade didn’t know what was happening until it had already happened – one minute, he was rushing to the aid of a crewman who was unable to stay standing on the slick decks and was attempting to tie down a main line. The ropes were wet and slick and it was hard to keep some of them on their moorings, and when he stood up, one of them slipped. The yardarm came swinging around fast, and his head was in the way. 

Next thing he knew he was on the deck, sliding, head in so much pain he couldn’t think. He hurt to the point where he felt like being sick right then and there, disoriented and dazed, and then a wave swept up over the boat and he was overboard. Under the water, it felt almost peaceful compared to the pain running through his skull and back. He couldn’t breathe, of course, his lungs burning as he held his breath, and he couldn’t see anything for the darkness of the water and the pain in his head, but he was unmoving. 

“Man overboard!” The cry was nearly inaudible over the wind, but the crew didn’t need it to have seen the event in question. They had seen the yardarm and the body and they all rushed to the railing to see if he was floating. He wasn’t. It was Anderson that actually was the first to step up, grabbing a length of rope from the deck and tying it down to the mast before starting to tie it around his waist. It was clear his intent, and he was quickly stopped. 

“I’ll do it.” John said, taking the rope before Anderson could protest and securing it around his waist. “We can’t lose both the Commodore and the Captain. We need you alive.” 

“You better make sure you don’t need me.” Anderson replied. He understood, he really did, but he didn’t like it. He liked doing it himself. He could trust himself to get it done. “And don’t make me kill Sherlock for pining for you.”

“I won’t.” John nodded, slipping off anything unnecessary from his person and heading for the rail. He stepped onto the rail and quickly dove in before the waves could force him in first against his will. They were as cold as he imagined them to be, and the darkness made finding anything hard. He surfaced, looking around. It was then that survival instinct took over Greg’s mind, sending his dazed body kicking towards the surface and air, and he too broke the surface of the churning waves, gasping for air. John swam for him, having to dive to grab his arms, as his body began to sink again just as soon as it had surfaced. Grip under Lestrade’s arms, John helped him back to the surface, supporting him with his body. They didn’t have long like that, the surf working against them as they floated, burying both their heads underwater whenever possible. “Commodore, can you hear me?” John asked, shifting the other’s weight and gasping in a breath as the churning pulled them under. Greg nodded, a little more of a bob than a sincere nod, though it was clear he was trying. 

“Pull!” Anderson ordered, from the deck, and the men began to work on hauling the pair aboard. It was harder than it looked, hauling over two hundred pounds of dead weight through churning surf, then up vertical to the railing, but with John’s help clinging to the side of the ship they managed it. Lestrade was flopped on deck, landing on his back, and in a moment of reflex he shifted to his side to cough up water. John was coughing, too, drenched through, and Anderson was quickly at their sides. “Commodore, Commodore.” He put a hand on Lestrade’s back, helping him stay in a way where he wouldn’t choke, and eventually the man stopped coughing and Anderson helped him sit up. He was drenched, too, a wet red mark on deck where his head had hit the wood. “John, you alright?”Anderson asked, and John nodded, standing as soon as he was able. 

“Yeah, yeah. Good.” He nodded. He went to Lestrade’s side, and the pair helped the Commodore to his feet, guiding him towards his quarters. The door took a minute to open, and they ushered the wet Commodore into the dry and warm cabin. 

“I see someone had a bad encounter with their own ship.” Sherlock said, though it was clear the words weren’t meant to be hurtful. They found a seat and sat Lestrade down. It was a good sign that he was sitting up by himself, if hunched over his knees and still coughing a little with every breath. 

“Exactly the reason you’re in here.” He eventually said, and he forced out a chuckle amid light coughing. He couldn’t force himself to sit up, though, arms balanced on his knees the one thing keeping his head in order. He was still dazed, vision unfocused and shifting in front of him, and everything still hurt. At least his lungs had stopped burning. Sherlock approached at his words, just putting a hand on his shoulder in a reply. No, he hadn’t said what he should have, but the hand was enough for Lestrade. That the other was glad Lestrade wasn’t dead, and that was about as much sentiment as the Holmes boys gave out regularly. 

“So it takes Greg nearly dying for you two to bond?” John said, coming back from having his head buried in a cupboard with some medical supplies. He quickly began to work on Lestrade’s head, cleaning the wound and wrapping it in a strong cloth bandage. “And you’re in the same room as Anderson and fur isn’t flying. Commodore, you should try the half dying thing more often if it gets them both like this.”

“Shut up.” Anderson’s foul mood had returned, sitting perched on the table near Lestrade and looking rather annoyed at his own worries. “I seriously had to consider for a moment having complete control over this boat. You don’t think my first thought was getting rid of him?” 

“No.” Sherlock smiled a cheeky smile. “Your first thought was probably you convincing yourself you wouldn’t need to take control of the boat. Your second was most likely how do we tell Mycroft. I don’t believe I was part of your worries in that moment.” 

“Sherlock, stop being a prick.” John chided, sitting back as he finished. “Okay, Commodore. You’re all bandaged up. Now you need to rest, alright? You banged your head pretty hard. We can take care of the ship from here.” John nodded. 

“I’ll make sure Sherlock doesn’t bother you, if you want.” Anderson smiled, looking at Sherlock like he might just lock him in the brig. Again. 

“No, no. It’s fine.” Lestrade waved off the comment, still unwilling to lift his head. He felt sick. His head was in so much pain still being sick was a very real thing and he wasn’t sure he could stand from the dizziness. “Anderson, help me up.” He asked, and Anderson was up in a second, ducking under Lestrade’s arm and helping him walk to the hammock nestled at the back of the room. “No, no, no, no, no. My desk.” Lestrade chuckled. 

“Sir, your desk?” Anderson shifted his weight a bit, concerned. 

“I’ll stumbled my way to my hammock in a minute. I just need to do something first.” Lestrade lifted a hand to his head, lifting his head and watching the cabin shift and bob under his feet. He stumbled, and Anderson kept him stable. 

“Sir, I insist.” Anderson was taking none of Lestrade’s shit, and quickly led him to his hammock, helping him lie down there. “You can tell Mr. Holmes all about it later.” Anderson chuckled. Lestrade sighed. Well, there was little way he was getting to his desk now. He laid back in the hammock, feeling the boat rock violently beneath his body, the hammock swaying with it in a way that was oddly calming. He closed his eyes, and oh god that was a good idea. Without the swimming vision he felt remarkably better, and he sighed. 

He didn’t notice Anderson or John leave, nor did he notice Sherlock pacing, because it only took him a few moments to drift off to sleep.


	6. The Kidnapping of Greg Lestrade

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_We have finally reached the port of Singapore. It has been far too long since I have been on land proper. Expect a few trinkets with my next letter, as I fear I may get distracted in the markets. Hopefully I will return with the tide, as Jim Moriarty is soon to be in sight!_

_Sincerely Yours,  
Commodore Greg Lestrade_

~*~

The port air was refreshing to their senses. It was stale, sure, but it wasn’t hard sea air. It was salty, but it was also rum soaked and sweet. Everything gave off a smell – the smell of fragrant cooking, of goods and wool and tar, of sweat and heat and sex. It was pungent, and a good number of the more polite type might have daintily covered their noses with a kerchief at the smell, but not Lestrade. No, he absorbed the smell like cloth absorbed water, soaking it up and inhaling deeply. Anderson scrunched his nose – he was only forgoing the kerchief because he lacked one. 

The port was bustling with people, all sorts from all lands. Pirates in the towns, navy men and traders – there were few places on Earth where one could say everyone was represented, but this was one of them. A man of the Orient haggled over water with an Indian shop keeper. Navy men patrolled the docks, pirates and corsairs and buccaneers played cards and swilled alcohol. Ships were unloaded and loaded, livestock and rice and sugar and spices trading hands for trinkets and bobbles, water and food. As they headed onto land a chicken clucked at Lestrade’s feet, pecking at its wooden bar cage. A goat tried to take a bite out of Anderson’s coat. 

“Alright. What did you say he looks like again?” Lestrade asked, keeping his eyes on every person that passed. 

“Shorter than I am but still taller than John. Dark hair, kept short and neat. He keeps his face clean and womanly. Large, dark eyes, dark circles. Dresses like a trader or a simple land merchant – waistcoat, frock, breeches. No bright colors, no hat, no belts or fabrics or weapons. Speaks like an Englishman that’s covering another accent but no conclusive ideas on what that may be. Possibly Irish, but I can’t be certain. His companion is taller, much taller, blond, green eyes. Practical in dress, no frock or coats or loose hanging garments. Carries a musket as well as a pistol and doesn’t use swords. He’s never far behind his Captain, and he doesn’t drink.” Sherlock replied, monotone in voice. No one noticed them, or his speech. Lestrade nodded – that was good, very good. They couldn’t get noticed out here looking for him. He’d run. 

“His ship, according to current reports, is the _Marbled Hornet_.” Anderson added. Lestrade nodded, carefully approaching a sailor who was currently fixing broken fishing nets as his two crewmen loaded their vessel. One of the crewmen was dark like the Captain, and the other was a gray haired gentleman who looked to have a bad back with the way he was stooping. 

“Captain.” Lestrade greeted, and the Captain stood, setting down his nets. 

“What can I do for you sir?” He asked. His words were kind, but defensive. He was unafraid of Lestrade, even with the blue coat and the big hat. His hand slipped to the hilt of his blade. Unafraid, but still wary. The Navy never really had the best reputation among honest sailors, or pirates alike. 

“We’re looking for someone. They sail on a ship named the _Marbled Hornet_. Have you seen her moored here recently?” Lestrade was all politeness, hands up and unthreatening. He didn’t want to get stabbed just because he wore blue and gold. 

“Poor bastard.” The sailor quirked a half smile. “I’ve seen the ship. They docked it in a little bay out of the way. No need to tell me what they did – they hide their boat and then the Navy comes stumbling in lookin’ for them, they had to do something real bad.” The sailor shrugged. “You come back to me if you need any help, yeah?”

“Thank you for the offer, sir.” Lestrade nodded, delighted that they were still in port. “Oh, and if you see the individuals on that boat, don’t tell them anything.” He added, and he slipped a few shillings into the other’s palm when they shook hands. The other looked at Lestrade with a smile that said _I didn’t know you boys stooped so low_ , but accepted the money none the less. He watched the group head off into town, leaving him and his motley crew alone on the docks. 

“They’re in town!” The dark skinned one cried. On closer inspection it was actually Jim Moriarty, face covered in dark soot from a fire and large eyes gleaming. “Things are going exactly as planned, aren’t they Sebby?” He purred to the other gleefully, already shedding part of his disguise. Underneath, his usual trader’s sort of fair, so ambiguous it was unrecognizable. 

“Yeah, except for the disguises.” Sebastian sneezed, wiping at his hair. “This powder is awful. It itches and makes me sneeze.” He sneezed again, delicate powder falling down onto his face and clothing. “Next time you’re the old man.” 

“No, next time I’m the shopkeeper and you’re the errand boy.” Jim chided. “Don’t be a child, and don’t’ fluff it. That’s what’s getting it everywhere.” 

“Then you do it.” Sebastian was impatient with the powder, and Jim sighed dramatically, reaching up to gently comb his fingers through the other’s hair. The powder started to drift down from the back of his head, and soon it was blond again. Sebastian took no time in stripping off the shirt he was wearing over his clothes, sneezing once more at the flying powder. “I’m never doing that again.” He grumbled. Once changed, he looked up at Jim, watching him wipe at his face with a kerchief. He was using the water as a mirror, leaving a thin, scraggly stripe of black smudged across his lip. “Jim, you, uh. Missed a bit.”

“Of course I did, _stupid_.” Jim groaned. “It’s a mustache. Does it look like one? Or do I need to find something else?”

“It looks very…. Creepy.” Sebastian grimaced. “But it could be a mustache if I didn’t know it was soot.”

Jim sighed. “Close enough. Come on, Seb, they’ll be in town by now. We need to keep on them or this whole thing falls through. You remember what’s next, right?” 

“Yeah.” Sebastian nodded. Together, the pair followed the group, watching his targets meander into town. 

The targets, Lestrade in the lead, headed into the off port market. It was loud, and bustling, and it was hard for the group to stay together amid so many people. Especially since Anderson seemed a little focused on trying to buy supplies, Sherlock was focused on Jim, John was focused on keeping by Sherlock, and Lestrade was simply distracted by the things being sold. He kept his eyes peeled, of course, but he was attracted by a certain stand and ended up moving over to it. On the table were a lot of trinkets, most with language he didn’t understand. He picked up a set of goblets, inscribed with words he didn’t understand, and looked to the shopkeeper. A short, dark headed man with large eyes—wait. Lestrade paused, checking the man over, but no. He sported an almost ridiculous mustache. 

“How much is this?” Lestrade asked, holding up the goblet. 

“Eight shilling.” The man’s accent was odd. Not odd as in Lestrade wasn’t used to accents from a certain area, but odd as in the man’s accent didn’t sound like any he’d heard before. He couldn’t place it. Spanish, maybe? Possibly Irish? “Comes with rum.” He offered, quickly, almost too quickly. Lestrade frowned. Something was off. No rum was that cheap, and with a set of goblets? It seemed fishy. He wondered if it was all stolen. Probably. He didn’t trust much in these markets not to be stolen at one point in their lives. 

“Where’s it from?” He asked, nonchalantly, trailing a finger over the writing. He wondered if Mycroft would be able to read it. Most likely, the man was fairly fluent in many different languages. “So I can figure this writing.”

“East.” Was the only reply. “You going to buy?” The shopkeeper was impatient, irritable. Lestrade didn’t like him. He looked at the keeper warily, thinking. 

“You know what it says?” Lestrade asked again. It was normal for shopkeepers to get all these questions, especially from the Englishmen who would wander into town every now and then. It made good business, because it was so easy to just lie and make it say whatever the Englishman wanted with no one the wiser. But the shopkeeper shrugged, unwilling to say. “You can’t tell me?”

“I cannot see very well and cannot read.” The shopkeeper shrugged again. “You buy?” He watched, and after a long moment Lestrade passed him the eight required shillings, getting handed a bottle of rum to go with the goblet. The shopkeeper seemed too eager to pass the bottle off to him, a grin on his face that was almost predatory. “You want me to uncork now, yes?”

“No, no. I’m sending this one off.” Lestrade nodded, warily, and was surprised that the shopkeeper was almost disappointed. He would drink it, eventually, but he was sending it to Mycroft first. He needed it sealed. The shopkeeper looked like he almost wanted to take it back and Lestrade considered including in his letter to be careful of the bottle. The Navy weren’t the only ones that kidnapped and forced men into service. “Thank you, though.” He nodded, and stepped away from the stall, checking his back every few moments, expecting the shopkeeper to follow. But no, he stayed, leering at Lestrade like the man had stepped over a trap of his. 

“Anderson,” Lestrade called, seeing his Captain’s blue hat bobbing over the crowd. He managed to come across the group a moment later. “No luck?”

“None, sir.” Anderson frowned. “And I’m having trouble finding enough sugar for the return trip.” He shook his head. “If there is a return trip, at the rate we’re going.” 

“We’ll find him.” Lestrade nodded. “He’s got to be here somewhere, and that Captain knows to tell us if he sees them leave. We’ve got a foolproof plan.” 

“Foolproof is an exaggeration, Commodore.” Sherlock replied, darkly, hands clasped behind his back and eyes trained on scanning everything that moved. “We have a _plan_ , at the very best, and more likely a disaster. We are trying to find a man who is very good at not getting caught amid a crowd of men who are also very good at not getting caught, and you’re wearing bright blue and gold. You are a beacon of obviousness. They’d know you’re coming from a mile off.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.” Lestrade grumbled. “Right then. Look, I’m going to look at one last thing, then I’m heading back to the ship to return some things. I’ll change when I’m there. Would that help?” He shook his head. 

“It might. If he doesn’t leave beforehand.” Sherlock sighed. “Do as you wish, Commodore, I don’t think we’re going to catch him easily whether or not you’re in uniform or in plain clothes.” Sherlock went back to scanning the area, and Lestrade just shook his head. No, no it wasn’t going to be easy. They were going to have a hell of a time. But they’d do it. They’d catch him in the end and that was all that mattered. Lestrade sighed, heading off, and he was really just going to go back to the ship, not look at anything else, because even though it was catching them in the end that mattered he still felt bad. But a stall on the way out caught his attention, and he paused there. There was a necklace that caught his eye, something in a strange script who’s silhouette looked remarkably like a fountain. 

“Ten shillings.” The shopkeeper said. Lestrade wasn’t really paying much attention, and he didn’t notice the blond shopkeeper actually looked a lot like Jim’s First Mate, except for the beard he sported. He was too distracted by the necklace, and he quickly paid, heading back for the boat, not thinking much of it. He didn’t see the blond remove his beard and duck behind the counter. 

The ship was right where they left it, and Lestrade boarded it quickly. Most of the crew was on land, as he’d granted everyone shore leave, but a few had remained, milling around on deck. They greeted him as he walked into his cabin, retreating from the world on deck. He settled his purchases on his desk, and began to pen his latest letter, getting lost in the writing of it. When that was finished, he changed out of his uniform, leaving his coat and hat on a coat rack and heading for outside. 

When he closed the door, he froze. The deck was empty. Of course, it could be that the few men left had either gone into town or gone below decks, but Lestrade knew his ship. He knew how it felt when there were others on board, and this wasn’t it. Slowly, he crossed the deck. There was no other sound, no other movement. He quickly stepped down the stairs to below, but there was no one there, either. He clenched his fists, his sword still at his side. Something felt wrong, like the dark in the corners hiding an awful secret. 

That awful secret nearly took off his hand in a swing of the sword, and Lestrade was up with his own blade defending himself in a moment. The man in front of him was small, dark haired and large eyes, the Spanish man from the booth – but without the mustache, and a cruel smile on his face. Lestrade stiffened, only capable of blocking as the offensive was desperate, fast and unrelenting against him. He was eventually backed into a wall. Except, that wall moved, shifted behind him, and a shiver ran up his spine at the movement. 

“Shit.” He muttered. A moment later something struck his temple, hard, and his vision swam and darkened, the floor greeting him with a hard thump.


	7. What Doesn't Kill Us Makes Us Stronger

He came around to the sick feeling of his aching head. It was like a flashback to the pain before, the red hot fire against his temple that threaded down to his stomach, making him feel sick. His read rolled, and he was slowly aware of his surroundings. First, the pain as his head shifted, the weight of his head, the weight of his shoulders and body. Then stickiness, hot and wet and dripping down his temple and sticking to his shoulders, weighing his shirt down. He groaned as he lifted his head, letting it roll back a little to support itself as he forced his eyes open. He was still in his own cabin. Nothing was trashed, everything was in order. These weren’t any ordinary robbers or pirates. They didn’t want him for his things, or his boat, as if they wanted the boat they would have just taken it earlier. However, he didn’t need to speculate on the nature of the people that had him for long. 

“Ah, finally. I thought for a while there you might have done him in, Sebby.” The purr was smooth, silky, and Lestrade hated it from the moment he heard it. It sounded like the voice of a snake in the grass, silky and sweet until it’s fangs sink into skin. Lestrade looked up at the man speaking, and froze. Not tall, dark hair, large eyes, clean faced, dressed like a merchant….

“Moriarty.” Lestrade actually chuckled. He thought, even in the position he was in, that he had finally won. Because he thought his crew would return soon and they would catch Moriarty and send him to the brig and he could go home. However, it was more than that, the chuckle relieved because Jim was just here and that meant that this might be finally over. 

“I wouldn’t laugh, Commodore.” Jim warned, approaching Lestrade with his arms behind his back. He towered over the other, who was tied to the chair with sturdy ropes. “You are in no _position_ to find favor in this situation.” Jim’s boot met Lestrade’s chest at the words, sending the chair toppling backwards. Lestrade’s head hit the ground hard, and he opened his mouth in a silent, shocked attempt at noise. “Stand him up.” Jim ordered, and Sebastian’s strong hands gripped Greg’s shoulders and the entire chair was hoisted back to it’s feet. 

Okay, so this _wasn’t_ as good as originally thought, Lestrade thought to himself. He was tied to a chair with someone very willing to hurt _him_ as well as anyone else to get his way. His crew could come back, sure. But considering the man probably just broke something with that kick, Lestrade quickly realized his life was worth very little. He coughed. “You see, Commodore, you prove to be a very key little pawn in my game.” Jim purred. He leaned in close, taking Lestrade’s face in hard fingers and forcing the Commodore to look him in the face. “But what you don’t realize is that you are simply that, a pawn. You are not a queen, or a rook, or even a castle. You just plod on like I tell you until you become no more use to me. And your sacrifice is now part of my plan.” Jim stroked the face under his hand, before giving it a hard slap. 

“My sacrifice.” Lestrade repeated, frowning, sucking at the place on his lip where Jim’s hand struck him. “The game I take it being the one you’re playing with Sherlock.”

“Mm.” Jim stepped back, crossing his arms behind his back. “The move I make here is a small one, but it _will_ win me this game.” Jim grinned, stepping over to the desk. His fingers gently ran over the parcel with Mycroft’s name on it, and Lestrade caught the movement from the corner of his eye. His body jumped too, pulling against the ropes, because no, that was not part of this. “Oh, what a reaction. You don’t get it, do you?” Jim’s purr was cruel now, harsh and cold. Lestrade didn’t like where this was going anymore. It was one thing if this was just him and Jim, but that parcel, Mycroft, was _not_ a part of this. “He’s the reason you’re my sacrifice, my dear Commodore. You and he… oh, it’s quite _precious_.” Jim’s voice was more a snarl than a purr. “And it’ll be his downfall.” 

“Don’t you hurt him.” Lestrade growled. Now it was dangerous, worth the waste of energy fighting was. Before, when it was just him, he could get away with complacency. He could wait and bide his time. But now there was no time to bide. Jim knew – it was confirmed – and he was going to exploit it. And that churned in Lestrade’s gut like a meal of bad seafood – unsettled and uneasy and constantly moving. Jim turned, grinning like a cat that ate the canary, striding over and putting his foot on Lestrade’s thigh where his hand was. The leather trapped Lestrade’s hand there, and with a sneer Jim ground his heel down against Lestrade’s hand. 

“Oh, I’ll do much worse than hurt him, trust me.” Jim hissed, grinning as he heard Lestrade’s fingers breaking under the pressure. The man was gritting his teeth, head slung back, chest heaving as he sucked in breath through his teeth and tried not to cry out. “But for right now I would focus on _you_.” Jim leaned in again, pressing his boot harder, watching Lestrade’s mouth open in a silent protest. “Sebastian.”

“Sir.” Sebastian stood from where he’d been seated, watching, and approached his Captain, handing him a dagger from his boot. The blade was small, but well cared for, and sharp. 

“You need to realize, _Greg_.” Jim grinned, taking the knife and carefully sliding it along the line of Lestrade’s cheekbone, leaving a small red cut behind. Lestrade hissed at the knife, tried to lean away from the blade, but Jim’s hand shot out and grabbed at his hair, immobilizing his head. “Ah, ah. Stay.” Jim growled. “You’ve got to realize, I mean _sacrifice_ quite literally.”

“You’re going to kill me.” Lestrade was no stranger to those threats, but here, under the power of this man with a knife to his face, he had to admit he was probably feeling the viability and the fear of the threat more than he had before. Because Jim could kill him, right that second. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect Jim’s attempt on his life at this point, but that Jim was like a an angry viper – it could kill you, and if you really considered the thought you could discern that the viper wanted to kill you, but you didn’t know when, or how, and all you could do was sit there and hope maybe it would change it’s mind. But Jim…. Jim didn’t look like he would. 

“Of course I’m going to _kill_ you, later.” Jim purred, taking Lestrade’s face in his hands and holding it tightly. “Just _killing_ you is borrrrring, though.” Jim took the knife, traced the line of Lestrade’s jaw, down his neck lightly. “No, no. I’m going to have my _fun_ first. Then we’re going to kill you.” Jim grinned, shifting his boot slightly up, pressing down hard and suddenly. Lestrade yelped at the pain tearing up his arm, hot, hot pain from his now shattered hand. 

Having his arms bound to the sides of the chair, and his chest roped there as well, there was little Lestrade could do to resist Jim’s knife. Hand still holding Lestrade’s hair, Jim took his time, tracing the knife along the lines of Lestrade’s face, along the wrinkles of his brow and the lines of his dimples and jaw, down his neck. But he refused to go ahead and kill Lestrade. He took off the man’s boots and systematically broke his toes, bending them until Lestrade was biting back screams through his teeth, the blood dripping down his face, but Jim refused to kill him. He sliced open his arms and feet and face, but he refused to kill him. It was like Greg was a new toy and Jim just didn’t want to share for a while. “Just kill me already.” Lestrade eventually bit out. Jim let off another fist against his face, leaving a nice bruise on his cheek. 

“Why?” Jim purred, putting his boot against Lestrade’s abdomen. The kick made Lestrade cough, hard, blood dripping from his chin. He could feel his broken ribs, could feel them pressing against his skin the wrong way in his chest. “You’ve still got untouched skin.” He grinned, taking the knife and suddenly burying it in Lestrade’s shoulder. Lestrade let out a strangled cry, breath catching at the pain. He was starting to go numb in places, but whenever he did Jim would move on, and the pain would be fresh as the first break of his fingers, bringing tears to his eyes. The knife remained, even as Jim let go, backing off and crossing the room. He took Lestrade’s coat from the wrack, and his hat. “But now, sadly, playtime is over.” He fisted the fabric, taking it with him to stand by Lestrade, before shoving it against Lestrade’s face. Blood smeared across the blue, leaving awful looking streaks all over the front. The hat was covered in the same procedure. Once bloodied, they were tossed to Sebastian, and Jim’s hand reached down and clasped the chain around Lestrade’s neck, pulling. It broke in his hands, leaving Lestrade feeling almost naked. 

“Why do you need that?” He asked, looking up at Jim through badly bruised eyes. It was one thing to beat him, to kill him, but couldn’t they at least leave his ring on him? 

“Because.” Jim stuffed the ring in a pocket, grinning like a jackel. “You’re not going to have a body. How else can we prove that you’re dead?” Jim grinned, heading for the cabin door. Sebastian followed, carrying the hat and coat in his arms. Outside, on deck, there was a longboat standing by, and there was a long fuse leading to below decks. There were also several bodies, two tied to the mast, one lying prone and bleeding, several others half bent over railings, all dead. Sebastian had done a good job with his half of the deal. The coat, hat, and Sebastian all climbed into the longboat, leaving Jim to quickly light the fuse and run for his escape. 

“I love warships. They supply their own destruction.” Jim said, as they quietly rowed away.

~*~

They heard the explosion before they saw it. Red and orange lit up the sky by the harbor, and like lemmings to the sea the people in the town began to flock towards it. Whatever it was, it was big, and Sherlock was the first to reach the beach. What greeted them was the shattered remains of what had been the _Duchess_ , floating like bobbing apples in the churning waves. Across the beach, there were bits of debris, pieces of wood, barrels, occasionally limbs or torsos or other grotesque body parts. It stank of gunpowder, smoke and burning flesh, and John covered his nose with his sleeve. Anderson arrived a few moments later, skidding to a stop on the beach. They all knew what he was thinking, and he didn’t have to say it – Lestrade had been on the ship at the time. 

Anderson was caught before he could run for the waves. “Commodore!” He called to the surf, but there was no reply. It was still and quiet after the explosion, nothing but the caw of gulls seeing the opportunity. “Commodore!” He called again, and instead of an answer, he found a parcel, soaking wet and charred at the edges, washing up against his feet. It was addressed to Mycroft Holmes. He picked it up, clutched at it. 

“Anderson.” Sherlock called the Captain’s name. Anderson took a moment to look, knowing what it was would not be good. It was Lestrade’s coat in Sherlock’s hands, soaking wet, charred and bloodied. Just down the beach, his hat rested in the sand, and as Anderson lifted that from the shore he noticed a glint amid the sand. Lestrade’s ring. It was a solemn sight to see – these men holding bloodied clothing and personal items of a man who was on a boat that was now nothing more than a shattered mess of wood and canvas floating in the harbor. 

“Men!” Anderson suddenly called, turning to look at the gaggle of crew standing there. He knew how they felt – for all intents and purposes their leader was gone. But that was why they had to shove forward. If he was alive, even barely, they had to find him _now_. “I want every one of you in a longboat searching this bay until there is nothing left! We’re not leaving here until we’ve confirmed there is nothing!” 

Sherlock watched him, holding Lestrade’s coat. The sea churned out in front of them, black and rough. “You won’t find him.” He said, staring at the space where the boat had been. “If he had been on the ship when it exploded, I would expect him to be like the others floating to shore at the moment – in pieces. They would have used the store of gunpowder in the lower decks. Nothing would have survived whole that was much bigger than that parcel.” 

“We’re not leaving until we’re sure.” Anderson replied, not looking at him. He swallowed. “It is the least we can do. If one of us was lost this way he would not stop until he was sure. We owe it to him, and we owe it to your brother. And as acting Captain of this crew if you mention leaving without him again I will find a brig and I will lock you in it.”

~*~

They didn’t leave for another two days. When they did sail out, it was with heavy hearts, Sherlock still clutching at Lestrade’s old coat, flag flying at half mast in the Commodore’s honor.


	8. Blanket For Your Shock

The mail came first. It was a sack that the butler had to drag inside from the threshold of the door. It was every letter Lestrade had sent over the course of the long months they’d been apart. Mycroft lifted the top letter off the pile, letting the servants drag the sack behind him as he retreated to a downstairs sitting room. It had begun to rain earlier that day, so the top few letters had smeared writing on the front and wet corners. Carefully, Mycroft lifted each letter from the bag, setting them on the table so the wet ones could dry and the dry ones could stay that way. He planned to organize them by date and open one each day, perhaps, once they had all dried. That way he could make them last until Lestrade’s return.

Halfway through laying them out, he was distracted, though, by the sound of distant footsteps. The slow sound of footsteps crunching on rock and stone drew his attention from the task, as no one was supposed to be coming up the drive at the moment. There were many footsteps, too, and no carriage to their name. A parade? He peeled back a drape, frowning at the sight through the rain soaked window. A small sea of blue uniforms, with two dark clad figures at the front, moving slowly up the long drive. As they moved in closer, he began to recognize figures – these were Lestrade’s crew, Sherlock in the front, head down against the rain, John beside him, Anderson…. But he couldn’t see Lestrade among the crowd. Something tightened in his chest. Surely, Lestrade would be in front if he was there. Slowly, he approached the door, opening it before his servants could get there. He wanted to be the one to greet them, find out what Lestrade had done now. He didn’t want the servants knowing his personal business, and he’d found out through years of dealing with Sherlock it was best to handle these things directly. 

The approach of the group was slow, heads bowed. When they reached the front door, they stopped, lingering in the rain. Mycroft could hear some of them crying, stifling sobs. He saw two men in the back clinging to each other desperately, one buried against the other, back visibly shaking. Others managed to keep themselves together better, the rain hiding tears if they were there. Mycroft stiffened apprehensively as Sherlock looked up, stepping aside slightly so that Anderson could pass by him. Anderson was holding a bundle in his hands, wet from the rain. Bloodied blue fabric, folded, a bloodied hat, and a glint of a silver chain beneath the hat. “Yes?” Mycroft asked, biting off the word slightly. He wasn’t going to jump to assumptions. Of course, he knew exactly what it looked like, but he wasn’t going to go there without due reason. He didn’t want to.

“Mr. Holmes.” Anderson said, softly. He sounded hoarse – it was possible he’d been shouting. Mycroft looked him over. Haggard. Eyes slightly rimmed red, probably only having pulled it together when they left for the sake of the crew. Tired, but back straight and posture erect. He looked like he finally felt important, but at a great and terrible loss. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Holmes.” The words had Mycroft’s lips tightening in their frown. Anderson looked down, offering the bundle to the other man, hands slightly trembling. Mycroft didn’t move, but his brow furrowed deeply. Before he could say anything, deny, ask questions or just utter a sentence in shock, Sherlock spoke up. 

“Mycroft, he’s dead.” Sherlock said. “Commodore Greg Lestrade is dead.” Sherlock watched Mycroft shift, take the bundle, and stand there for a moment. He was staring at the bundle like that was the key to the secrets of the world, clutching it in his fingers. If Mycroft was another man, Sherlock might have worried the words would have him sobbing on the floor, but that was not the case. Mycroft was steel, but even steel can rust and break. Mycroft, however, eventually looked up, face a mask of hard impassivity. It betrayed nothing.

“Sherlock, John, Anderson. Please, come in. I would like to discuss this privately.” Mycroft didn’t smile, the only betrayal of anything being the way he clutched at the bundle in his arms. His words were sharp, clipped. Anderson nodded, quietly dismissing the crew, giving Mycroft another moment to study the clothing, trying to find the lie in the fabric. It was disconcerting, of course, the blood and the charred edges, but he couldn’t believe it, not yet. Lestrade was stronger than this. It could be a ruse. He had to know the truth of it, first and foremost. He would love to have a body, but that wasn’t always possible. Silently, he stepped back, letting the other three out of the rain and into the foyer. The four then headed into the study, the letters still strewn on the desk. Mycroft swept them back into the bag. They were unimportant now, he had bigger things to deal with at the moment. He sat behind his desk, setting the bundle down beside him on the desktop, hands crossing in front of him. He kept a steeled mask on his face. “What happened?” He asked. 

“The ship exploded.” Sherlock said, with all his usual tact. Mycroft’s face hardened a little more at the words. That was not hopeful. “We made port in Singapore, chasing the pirate hell bent on destroying us. Lestrade went to go write you yet one more letter, having bought you things in the markets, and the ship exploded while he was on it. You know as well as I do that the probability of him being alive is unlikely at its best.” Mycroft looked up at Sherlock, looking him over. Tobacco stained fingers. John clinging to his arm not in a way that said John was sad, but in a way that said John didn’t want him to run off, John’s face hard and steeled. A slight tremble in Sherlock’s hands, the kind of tremble Mycroft recognized from the early days when he expected Lestrade coming in to bring him news of Sherlock nearly dying somewhere, rather than the other way around. Sherlock wasn’t lying – at least, he certainly believed Lestrade was dead. 

“It’s true, sir. We searched the bay and found nothing.” Anderson clasped his hands together, having taken the chair in front of the desk. He was the most visibly shaken, and Mycroft understood why. Lestrade had mentioned Anderson to him before – the man liked Lestrade because the Commodore paid attention to Anderson’s accomplishments and recognized him for them. The man was probably the most upset in the room, at least on the outside. “No body, but no survivors, either. We considered dragging a net across the bay, but he realized most of the floating debris had drifted out to sea and we would be unlikely to gather much by dragging the bay. I’m so sorry, sir.” Anderson shifted, remembering something. “He was there to send this to you. It washed up on shore.” He reached back, pulling out the parcel and handing it over. “It’s a little… wet. But I think he’d like you to have it.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft said, not smiling, hands wrapping around the parcel. Sherlock stepped forward, so he was close enough that Mycroft couldn’t avoid looking at him. Of course, this movement only got Mycroft’s stiff frown directed at Sherlock.

“Mycroft.” He said, frowning. “You know he has no other family to speak of. Unless you arrange what is necessary, nothing will get done and he will be yet one more life lost at sea without recognition. I would readily protest you passing this off onto anyone else. He needs a funeral, and soon.” 

“I will if I find a funeral is needed.” Mycroft said, standing to meet his brother, words more clipped now that the idea of a funeral had come up. “Thank you for giving me this information. I feel as though I must do some searching of my own.” Mycroft didn’t smile, didn’t move, kept his voice calm and his words short and to the point. His manners were closed off, shedding ice like a glacier. “If you could so kindly alert me to the suspect involved in this debacle I will let you all know when I have come to my own conclusions.” 

“You know the name.” John said, finally speaking. “Lestrade probably told you. Jim Moriarty.” 

“Jim Moriarty.” Mycroft repeated. He closed his eyes, that name familiar – Lestrade had told him of the name. That name would be a name forever burned into the folds of Mycroft’s memory. Even when the pirate was dead he would still remember the name. He was glad – there would be at least one person to remember Lestrade’s murderer. “Thank you, John. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to write my own letters.” Mycroft gave the group a nod in goodbye. He didn’t need to say it – he had twice as much information and manpower as Anderson had. “If Lestrade is alive, I will find him.” 

“If you need my men, we’ll be in the area.” Anderson said, reaching out to shake Mycroft’s hand softly. Sherlock didn’t say a word, but the pair exchanged a look. John lingered after the other two had gone. 

“Mycroft.” John shifted. “I’ll try and take care of Sherlock. You focus on taking care of yourself.” He tried to flash the older Holmes a smile and got a half sneer in return. 

“I’m fine.” Mycroft replied. 

“Sherlock’s been saying the same thing, but you and I both know better.” John looked up. “If you ever need someone, even if it’s just to sit in the room with you while you think, I’ll be in town, alright?” 

“I appreciate the offer. But I say again, I’m _fine_.” Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. “Do make sure Sherlock doesn’t get into anything he shouldn’t. I don’t need to be dealing with him and this as well.” He nodded. John nodded in reply, and after lingering a moment longer, left Mycroft alone. Alone in a room with Lestrade’s things and the cold rain pattering at the window. Quietly, Mycroft sat, taking the parcel and opening it. Inside, he found the goblet, the bottle of rum, the necklace, and a note. 

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I found these things in the market in Singapore and I thought of you. Included should be a bottle of rum, a brass and pewter chalice and a silver chain with a pendant. Hopefully we can share the rum on my return. I thought the chalice would be something you would delight in using, and not only is it sturdy I find the designs pretty (though I don’t know what it says). The pendant looks like it could be a fountain, though I think it probably isn’t. However consider it a fountain, specifically the one in your garden that we have spent so much time by. I hope these things get there undamaged._

_Sincerely Yours,  
Commodore Greg Lestrade_

He read it, stared at the rum, the goblet, the necklace, and Lestrade’s things. The rum they were supposed to share when he returned. The goblet, which Mycroft could see Lestrade sneaking sips of Mycroft’s drink out of it when the man wasn’t looking. The necklace that resembled a fountain they wouldn’t get to hold hands by again. The blood and the charred and the ring that was so much more than a simple band of color hanging around Lestrade’s neck. Mycroft sighed, putting his fingers up to his face in thought. Something didn’t feel right about this, and he would tear apart the world to find out the truth of the matter. First on his agenda was locating that blasted pirate, then visiting Singapore himself. And there was the funeral to be arranged…. He pressed his eyes closed. 

He only opened them when he felt a blanket settling on his shoulders. He looked up, surprised to see one of his servants holding a glass and brandy while another settled the blanket around his shoulders. “We thought you might need this, sir.” The first servant said, setting the glass and brandy bottle on the table, bowing. “If you need anything else, sir, we’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Thank you.” The act of kindness was appreciated, as well as the stiff drink. Mycroft would need something to keep him going. He had letters to write himself. 

~*~

It was hours before he moved. He’d finished all his letters, ready to go out in the morning. Quietly, Mycroft stood, not feeling tired. He had too much to do, and communication was so slow these days it was impossible to move quickly on these matters. First, start the search for Moriarty. Then to Singapore, and then if there was no luck he would plan the funeral. He rubbed his face, looking at the things scattered on the desk. Softly, he picked up the necklace Lestrade had sent him and slipped it around his neck. Then, he reached for the broken chain with Lestrade’s ring and slipped the ring off, putting it back on his hand. 

He then proceeded upstairs, slipping into his dressing gown and keeping both his rings and the necklace on. The rain was still pouring outside, giving the night a soft background noise to it. He approached the window, putting his hand on the pane. “Gregory.” He said, softly, to the sky and the clouds and the room. “I will find you. I promise you that.” He twisted the ring on his finger. He would go to the ends of the Earth and back if he meant he’d bring Lestrade home. He’d sail off a waterfall into Davy Jones’s Locker itself and negotiate a deal with the undead Captain himself if it meant bringing Gregory home. But part of him couldn’t help thinking this was all fruitless, all in vain, and Lestrade was dead. However, he refused to dwell on that while he was awake. 

To the sound of pattering rain, he went to bed. But just because he didn’t dwell on it during the day didn’t mean he didn’t at night. 

Mycroft didn’t get any sleep that night.


	9. No Rush

It took three months for Mycroft to work his way to Singapore. Three months of letter writing, waiting, responding, packing, sailing, being seasick, and everything else. The only thing that kept him patient - and during those awful storms where the seasickness got unbearable, kept him _sane_ – was reading Lestrade’s letters. Like he promised, he would read a letter a day, just one, and he’d reread it several times before the day was over. But this was different. When he got to the last letter, he would save it. He told himself he could only read it when Lestrade came home, or when he’d completely given up, whichever came first. 

It was their first day in port. Mycroft was exceedingly glad to be on land for once and not on a ship. He’d spent most of the time on the water closed up in either the Captain’s cabin or in his borrowed hammock trying not to be sick. Finally on land, he was a little wobbly, but refused to accept help for it. He would get his bearings again eventually. The sky was overcast that morning, threatening rain. They only had a day - he'd hitched a ride with a merchant who was here to buy sugar and silk before returning it to the English shore. Carefully, Mycroft drew his daily letter from his coat, popping the seal with a finger and pulling out the paper. He needed to read it now before it began to rain and ruined the paper. 

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I feel like I must inform you of my almost death this evening. The ship hit major squalls off the Cape, and I was nearly drowned. I’m okay, though! I have to give my greatest thanks to Captain Anderson and Sherlock’s crewmate John for risking their lives for mine. Maybe you could throw a small to-do in their honor sometime? I think Anderson would appreciate it especially. Poor man seems like he wants to be recognized, and besides getting him promoted as Commodore I don’t know what else to do for him._

_Sincerely Yours,  
Commodore Greg Lestrade_

Mycroft’s lips pressed together in a tight line, thumb stroking at the words. “Of course, Gregory.” He murmured at the paper, folding it again and tucking it away. It was something he needed to remember to do once this whole business was a little further in the distance. Throw both those men a small get together, maybe he could get the cook to bake something nice. For all they did for Lestrade, they deserved it. He sighed. He had more important things to do that day.

Quietly, he followed the docks down to the shore. There was still debris floating in the water. Pieces of the ship Lestrade once called home. Mycroft lifted one, stroking the wood with a thumb. Finding any evidence of the actual explosion was fruitless at this point. Three months later anything left would be destroyed. But, he’d spoken again with Sherlock, and seeing the scene, he could figure how it happened. Gunpowder in the ship’s hold. However, just seeing the place wasn’t enough. Mycroft hadn’t spent three months idle – he’s brushed up on the language. 

The man he approached was squat and petting a chicken. Mycroft had read that most people in Singapore can at least understand English, so he only had to learn to hear the language, not speak it. “Hello, sir.” Mycroft greeted, and the man looked up. Good, good, so he could understand him. “Were you here three months ago when the ship exploded?”

The man replied, but it wasn’t in the language Mycroft was expecting. It was broken and bitten and muddled, and while he picked up a word or two similar, it wasn’t the same. He straightened, trying not to look too put off by that. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t quite get that.” Mycroft tried to force a polite smile, but that was starting to get harder these days and it didn’t quite get there. Instead it looked like an embarrassed grimace, and the little man grumbled back to him in the same language. No, still didn’t get what he said. Mycroft was starting to grip at his cane a little tighter, lips pressed into a hard frown. “Sir, if you could just be clear---“ Mycroft tried, but he was cut off by shouting.

“He’s saying you must be deaf.” Another man from the docks approached. “He’s answered twice, what more do you want?” He was dark, smiling, and Mycroft couldn’t return the smile, even in a polite gesture. 

“I was told they would speak Malay here.” Mycroft muttered, almost a little sour. It was like getting caught with your hand stuck in the cookie jar. Mycroft Holmes, not knowing what he was talking about? He inhaled, exhaling slowly. No, no. No emotion. Emotion was for lesser men. Caring was not an advantage. He had a job to do – find the truth of all of this - and nothing could stop him. 

“They speak Baazar Malay. It’s a different dialect.” The man replied. “What do you need?”

“Were you here three months ago when the ship exploded in the harbor?” Mycroft asked, yet once more. He was starting to get frustrated asking the same questions over and over. However this man seemed to actually understand him, and knew how to respond. 

“Yes. Big explosion. Whole town heard it.” The man crossed his arms. “Why? You with the blue coats that sailed on it?” The man sneered. “The boat exploded. If you are looking for survivors you should ask Davy Jones. No one has washed up here.” 

“Thank you for that, but I am not searching for survivors.” Mycroft covered the twitch of his lips well at the words. No survivors. No bodies, nothing. The likely hood of Greg’s survival plummeted several hundred percent, but there was still one avenue left to pursue. Mycroft shifted on the sand. “I am searching for the man that might have done such. He goes by the name Jim Moriarty and sails on a ship called the _Marbled Hornet_.”

“Aye, that ship is still in harbor.” The man said. Well, that was actually a surprise. Mycroft had expected a hunt, or a chase, or something. He frowned. Did the pirate want to be caught? “He hadn’t left in three months.” So he was waiting for him. “You can find him at the nearby inn.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft nodded, heading back for the beach. He rubbed at the ring on his hand with his thumb, staring out at the dark waters that had apparently claimed Lestrade’s life. Even if Greg was dead, he wanted to know from the man that killed him. He wanted to hear the truth from the source. He couldn’t rest – couldn’t let Lestrade rest – until he was certain. 

~*~

“Um, Jim?” Sebastian was watching out the window of the inn. His Captain was sitting at a table, smoozing some other pirates and winning all their money by playing them at cards, literally playing them while Sebastian provided the fancy card tricks. They’d been in port for three months, and Sebastian was getting anxious. Something was wrong. It didn’t help he was now witnessing a sea of blue navy men heading for the inn. “The blue coats are here.” 

Jim didn’t say anything to Sebastian’s comments, instead standing and taking his winnings, depositing them in a small sack. He grabbed Sebastian by the arm and dragged him to the back of the in. “Sebastian, I’m going to give you an order. Disobey me and I will kill you, understand?” Jim’s voice was hard, and his smile bitter and cruel. “I want you to take all the money we’ve won and make your way back to England. Avoid well traveled sailing routes if you sail.” 

“Without you?” Sebastian was not having that, grabbing Jim by the shoulders and watching the man slip from his grip like a slippery fish. “I can’t do that, sir.” 

“Sebastian Moran you do as I tell you.” Jim growled, grabbing the man by the front of the shirt. “You get yourself to England. They’re coming for me – it’s most likely Sherlock’s obsessive brother wanting to chat with me. I can hold out with him as long as they cant’ convict me. You get to England so when I finally tell him what he wants you can get me out of there. Do not fail me, do you understand?” Jim tugged on his shirt. “If you get caught by them – and mark me they will be looking for you too, don’t forget it – then you and I will both end up hanging.” He let go of the shirt. “I am not having you hang because you’re a sentimental pain.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Sebastian didn’t know whether to be mad or not. This way, they both lived. He could live with that. “Promise me, though, that you’ll not let them kill you because you want to see what it’s like.” 

“I can’t make that promise, Sebby.” Jim smiled a viper smile, reaching up to tug at his collar. “If I get a chance to see life’s final act I’m not missing that finale.” He purred. Sebastian sighed, reaching up to Jim’s hands. 

“Really, Jim. For me. Don’t make me come to England just to see your funeral.” He watched Jim sigh, tugging at his collar more. 

“Fine. Pain.” Jim growled. “Now, go. Before I have to shove you out that bloody door.” He grinned, giving the other a shove and watching as Sebastian disappeared out the back entrance. Quietly, he turned to the center table – the other pirates had fled as they spoke, leaving the inn more or less empty, the only customers a few well meaning and slightly terrified tradesmen in the corners – sitting down and crossing his legs, hands behind his head. He sat, relaxed, ordered a tin of rum and snapped at the small band working for shillings in the corner to play something nice. That was how the navy greeted him, drinking rum, listening to the music, feet on the table, alone in the inn. 

“No rush.” He grinned, sipping at his drink. Mycroft was standing in the doorway with an officer, arms crossed. He’d found some navy men of Lestrade’s that had been later returning to Singapore for the meet up, and after having to be the one to unfortunately inform them that Lestrade was missing and presumed dead, they agreed to help capture the soul who did it and return him and Mycroft to England for a proper interrogation. They had expected to find him at least surprised, and the fact that he was calmly sipping rum made Mycroft suspicious. 

“Jim Moriarty, you’re under the arrest.” The officer said, letting his men step by him to put the man in chains. Moriarty seemed to have no problem being restrained, grinning the entire time with his viper smile, teeth bared. 

“Arrested for what?” He purred, cruelly.

“For crimes against my Commodore, my crew, Mycroft Holmes and the crown.” The officer snapped. “You will be interrogated to know the extent of your crimes against my Commodore, then you will be turned over to the crown for your acts of piracy.” The chains were loud and tight and clinked when they forced Moriarty forward, but they found it hard because the small man was dead weight against him, flopped like a cat against them and grinning at Mycroft the entire time. 

“Good luck with that.” He snarled, wetting his lips with his tongue briefly. “I wonder though, when you’ll realize, what you want to know you’ve known all along.” He chuckled. 

“To the brig with him!” The officer shouted, loudly, offended. Mycroft remained quiet, watching him go. He would find out soon enough what he wanted. And no pirate was going to tell him that his search was fruitless. He would find out exactly what he needed if he spent the rest of his life looking.


	10. Monster, Monster

He couldn’t put it off any longer. When he returned from Singapore it marked six months, and he couldn’t keep putting it off. It had to be done. 

It was raining. Not hard, but a drizzle – that miserable rain that’s just enough to soak through clothing but not enough to warrant seeking cover – cold and leaving the sky a dark and muddy gray. Mycroft wished it was a beautiful day. He would have loved to have it on a beautiful day, but instead Lestrade’s funeral was graced with rain and the promise of thunder in the distance. 

“I’ve been asked to say a few words.” Anderson was speaking. They had a headstone erected under a tree in the town’s ceremony. There was no grave, as there was no body, but that didn’t make it any less real. Mycroft had wanted to pay for the headstone, but before he could, Anderson had gotten the crew to chip in funds to purchase one themselves. It was gray and cheap and chipped, but it was better that way, Mycroft guessed. They’d tried their hardest to give back to their Commodore, and he wasn’t going to usurp their hard work for a little aesthetic. “The, uh, the crew wanted me to say something, so.” Anderson wiped at his face. 

There was one good thing about the rain – it was hard to tell who was crying and who wasn’t. Anderson straightened himself, clutching at a piece of wilting wet paper with shaking hands. “The Commodore was… was a great man. He was the best man I’ve ever met. You can-can ask the crew, they’d tell you, he was… he was a fantastic leader. He was like a father to us. He wasn’t mean to the cabin boys, he was kind and he-he really loved us, I think.” Anderson paused a moment, swallowing thickly. “He gave everyone their dues, and while he wasn’t stingy with punishment, he wasn’t… cruel, either. He liked being creative.” Anderson chuckled, bitterly, wiping at his face again. “Once, he caught a boy stealing apples and instead of twenty lashes the boy had to do a job for every apple he stole. Hard jobs, too, grown men’s jobs. But it was fair. He was so fair to us. He didn’t get mad when we got scared, he just-he talked to us about it. He was open, and he a-appreciated us even when n-no one else would….” Anderson stopped, pressing his sleeve against his eyes for a moment. It was silent as he composed himself, taking a hand to his face to rub away the water. “He was a good man, and a great man, and the best leader a crew could have, and we’ll… we’ll miss him.” 

There was silence as Anderson stepped down from the plot of grass he’d been speaking from and rejoined the crowd. No one spoke. Eventually the silence was broken with a hiccupped sob from the front of the crowd, a small cabin boy who couldn’t keep it back. John, who was standing next to the boy, wrapped an arm around his small shoulders and let the boy bury his face against his trousers. 

The gun salute was John’s idea, the crew all discharging their weapons at the sky until they ran out of shot on their person and the gunpowder became too wet to function. They ended up firing twenty one shots. Eventually, Mycroft stepped forward to the plot of grass claimed as a speaking spot, addressing the men before him. Most of them were crew members, dressed in their finest uniforms, with Sherlock and John standing in front – John was in his old uniform as well, and Sherlock had taken some tact and buttoned his dark coat over his clothes so he looked a little less cheerful. 

“I want to thank you all for being here.” Mycroft said. He wasn’t crying. He was clutching his cane like he might have to beat someone with it in a minute, but he wasn’t crying. He didn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. Not until he was sure of the truth. “I know Gregory’s death has been an ordeal for all of us, and if he knew you were all here today I believe that would have overjoyed him. He did truly appreciate his crew as though they were family.” Mycroft looked to the headstone, putting a hand on it slightly. “He was a fine man and he will be missed. By all of us.” 

The trumpets that followed were eerie, echoing over the grass landscape, reverberating off the headstones, the drum with them like the long forgotten heartbeats of the dead. They mourned as the people mourned, the instruments that could at one moment sound so upbeat now like screams of mothers and fathers and wives that cried over their lost husband’s or son’s grave. When they stopped, the congregation dispersed, groups heading off in different directions from the headstone. Mycroft remained, hand still on the headstone, patting it softly. He wasn’t done here, even though the world insisted he was. He didn’t move until he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“Mycroft.” It was John, still holding the sobbing child. He’d shifted the young boy to his hip as the crowd dispersed, rocking him softly. “I’m very sorry this all had to happen.” He said, licking his lips slightly. 

“Thank you for the condolences, John.” Mycroft’s voice was polite, but clipped, chilled. “I assume you’re here because Sherlock noticed I seem to lack any emotional turmoil over the fact that Lestrade is officially considered dead, is that it?” 

“He told me to talk to you.” John sighed. “He thought you’d respond better to me than to him, but he’s right. You’re not… upset.” John shifted the child, letting him clutch better at his coat. “Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yes, John.” Mycroft looked over to Sherlock, who was standing with Anderson. They weren’t talking, but there was still communication going on between them. By simply standing together, existing in the same space without fighting or making nasty comments or threats at each other, both were sharing a moment mourning over the one person they really liked in common. To be frank, they were almost bonding over the experience. Anderson reached up and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock tensed, but didn’t shake off the hand. “I, unlike some here, am better at controlling my emotional reactions to situations. I still have work to do.” 

“Well, I still want to ask if you’d like to have a cup of tea sometime?” John tried a comforting smile and got no response. “It’s no good if you lock yourself up in your house and never come out. You should come to the little place Sherlock and I have holed up in and have tea with us sometime. Maybe get some fresh air, clear your head?” 

“Thank you for the offer, John, but as I said, I have work to do still. I do not want to take my attention away from the important tasks in front of me.” Mycroft looked from Sherlock to John, trying not to look at the child still sobbing on John’s shoulder. 

 

“Alright. But don’t…. kill yourself with work, alright? It’s one thing to be focused. Just be careful.” John reached out, patting Mycroft on the arm. No response to that, either. “We’ll be in town if you need to talk to us, alright? Or if you just want to get out of the house for the day.” John nodded, shifting the child again. Mycroft nodded in return, and that was at least a response. Without another word, John headed off, approaching Sherlock and Anderson. The Captain quietly took the boy off John’s hands, holding the child on his hip and trying not to look at the gravestone. 

Eventually, the three of them left, leaving Mycroft standing alone with the gravestone in the rain. Mycroft watched the rain darken the stone of the headstone, not moving even as the rain began to pour even harder. He wasn’t done yet. The gravestone was only there as a marker, it wasn’t proof. Mycroft wouldn’t be done until he had proof, true proof, and until then the gravestone was just yet one more reason to keep on going. 

“Sir?” He only looked up when a servant approached, holding an umbrella. “You should come home, sir, before you catch cold.” He held the umbrella out over Mycroft’s head, and the man eventually conceded to following him back down the road to a waiting carriage to take him home. 

~*~

He was waiting for Mycroft in a small barred off room in the back of the house. One door, no windows, a table and a chair that Jim was tied to. There was nothing else in the room, leaving Jim bored when he was left alone. He’d figured out how to get out of his ropes already, and how to retie them again, and he could probably walk out at any time and just run. But that was no fun. So instead he sat, and mused, and waited and never stopped grinning. The guards found it unsettling, when they came in to feed him or untie him and let him walk around. One nearly shot him. 

“I see it’s raining.” Jim purred, when Mycroft entered. He was fresh from the funeral, going straight to business. 

“Mm.” Mycroft set his cane on a chair. “Are you going to answer my questions today, or are we going to have to stop playing nice?” Mycroft asked in return. He got no response, which was typical. The three months Jim spent in the brig, every day was like this. Mycroft would ask questions and Jim would stay silent. The only time he’d speak was quick quips about the weather, or the occasional question about Sherlock. Today was no different. 

“How’s your brother? Devastated, I’d imagine.” Jim grinned, watching Mycroft walk one end of the room, then the other. 

“I’m not here to speak of my brother, you know that.” Mycroft shot a hard glance at the other. They were playing a game and he knew it. The more he said about Sherlock, the happier Jim was. The more Jim said about Lestrade, the happier Mycroft was. Neither side was conceding in this little game they were playing. Both sides were holding ground, speaking friendly but refusing what they knew the other wanted or needed to hear. It was starting to get near the end of the game and no one had scored, and Mycroft’s patience was beginning to wear thin. “Now, tell me what I want to know.” He watched the other, the pirate’s head shifting from side to side like the snake he was, saying nothing. Calmly, very calmly, Mycroft went for the door. “Then you leave me no choice.” 

When he opened the door, he let in two of Lestrade’s officers. They were in plain clothes, but it was clear they were his crew, as they had hate in their eyes and murder in their clenched fists. Mycroft left, closing the door behind him. He knew he was probably cheating in their game, but at this point the symbolism of the things they played at had stopped mattering. He was getting his information, however he needed to do so. Sadly, no room in the house was an escape from the noises coming from the room – broken screams, snapping bones, the sound of the chair breaking hard against something – but Mycroft was unperturbed by it. It was what he had to do. 

When he returned, it was to an entirely different scene. Jim was being held, his face already beaten in, and the only thing stopping the fist held high was the sound of the door. “You may go.” Mycroft dismissed the men, who spit on Jim as a last sort of fuck-you, leaving the pair alone again. Jim’s blood was all over the floor, his face a mass of bruises and broken bones, lacerations and tears. They’d broken his nose five times, and from the way he stood, they’d broken ribs, too. “Now, are you going to tell me what I need to know?” Mycroft asked, with all the calm professionalism of a coroner with a body. Jim spat, still grinning that unsettling smile. 

“You know, they called me a monster.” He said, making his way back to his chair and flopping in it, hissing a little at the pain in his side. It wasn’t a bad hiss, but a good one, a hiss of pleasure, and his eyes were half lidded when he spoke – and it wasn’t the bruises doing it. “They said I was a monster for killing him.” And then he laughed, a high, bitter, hyena like laugh that sent a shiver down Mycroft’s spine. “You great monster! They cried. Hah.” Jim spat again, this time aiming for Mycroft’s shoe. “I supposedly killed a man. You sent them in here to make me talk.” Jim shifted, leaning over the table with a deadly look in his eyes, a haunting smile across his bloodied lips. “You tell me, Mr. Holmes, which one of us is the real monster here?” He flashed his teeth, watching the other. Mycroft reached for his cane, looping it on his arm before heading for the door – if letting Lestrade’s men take their finely tuned anger out on Jim wasn’t enough to make the man talk, he would get nothing else from him today – but he stopped when Jim spoke again. “I know what your Commodore would say.” Jim purred, honey words slipping through bloodied teeth. “I’m just a murderer. You’re the monster.”

Mycroft left the room to that insane laugh, the door slamming hard behind him. “You alright, sir?” The guard asked, questioning the blood on his trousers. 

“Don’t feed him.” Mycroft ordered, nearly snapped, heading off for his study. “No food and no water. I want him broken by the time I see him again. Do you understand?” 

“Yessir.” The guard nodded, watching Mycroft head for his parlor, his quick steps leading him away from cries of _Monster! Monster!_ left in his wake.


	11. No Good Deed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Warning: Mentions of Drug Abuse and Attempt At Suicide*

It had been over a month, and he still wasn’t talking. Mycroft sighed, sipping at his brandy at his desk, elbows on the table, jacket on a chair. They’d only fed him enough to keep him alive, and he had stopped talking, only opening his mouth to chant _monster_ at Mycroft whenever he tried to talk to him. They were getting nowhere with this. Mycroft took another long gulp of brandy. Maybe he would need to call Lestrade’s men back, get them back in that cell, see if anything worked. Anything. At this point he was willing to try anything. They were getting to nine and ten months. It was almost certain Lestrade was dead – if he was alive, he would be back by now. But Mycroft was hell bent on getting his answers from Moriarty. 

His servants looked on from the doorway to the study. They were worried, for certain. Mycroft hadn’t been eating. Or sleeping. He only ate enough to keep him going, drank tea when he was getting too tired to question Moriarty, and drank little water. They were worried he would kill himself by the end of the month of he kept this up. His normal appearance was being kept in check, but there were obvious signs, dark circles, thinning waist and ill fitting waistcoats. He was moving slower, doing less. One of them eventually coughed, and Mycroft looked up. He hadn’t smiled in months and the servants hadn’t expected a smile. 

“Sir?” The man stepped into the room, looking even more concerned. “You have visitors.” He tried to hide the grimace as Mycroft returned to his drink and the papers on his desk. He did have a job to keep up with, too. Not just the search. It meant he was busy all the time, which didn’t help at all. “Sir?” The servant tried again, thinking maybe Mycroft didn’t hear him. 

“Send them away, tell them I’m not here.” Mycroft waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t want any visitors.” He didn’t look up from his papers as he spoke, unconcerned with dismissing what could be an important embassy or other visitor. “If they are desperate to speak with me tell them I can meet with them on the second Thursday of November if they are free.” 

“Sir, its Sherlock and John.” The servant shifted. “It’s your brother. We didn’t think it was prudent to send him and John away.”

“Do so anyway.” Mycroft still didn’t look up from his papers, making the servant shift again. He would say something about it being Mycroft’s brother, or the state that Sherlock was in, but he didn’t feel it was his place. The servant shot a glance out into the foyer. There was a ruckus out there, the door slamming and banging of tables. Muffled shouting echoed into the room. 

“They refuse to be turned away, sir.” He said. “Your brother is in bad shape, it might be better to---“

“I said _tell them I’m not here_.” Mycroft looked up, face taught. That was as close to emotional as he got, and it was frightening. “Is that too hard for you?” 

“Sir, they’re…. they’re already inside.” The servant fidgeted, knowing Mycroft wouldn’t like this. “I don’t think we can---“ He, however, didn’t need to face Mycroft’s disapproving face much longer, as with a shout, the instigator of the noise burst into the room. John stood in the doorway, hand on the door. He was bent like he’d been carrying a load, breathing heavily, blood splattered down the front of his clothes. And he was more desperate than anyone in the room had seen him. 

“John, I don’t have time for _tea_.” Mycroft clipped the word off with disdain, going back to his papers. Instead of a verbal response, however, he found John’s replay was getting up next to the desk and having the papers he was devoting his time to ripped from under his nose. “John.”

“You were going to turn us away?” John’s hands went in the air. “Mycroft! This is serious! You haven’t-you haven’t seen Sherlock, he’s-he’s dying, I think, he’s certainly _not well_ and you were-you were planning on sending us back out in the cold?” John didn’t sound angry. He sounded breathless and desperate and hopeless, and it didn’t elicit anything from Mycroft. “Mycroft, really!” 

“John, look. I don’t know what Sherlock has done, but I simply _do not have time_ for this. If you would please let my servants escort you back out, it would be appreciated.” Mycroft’s tone was cold, and it lit something in John. If Mycroft had looked up, he would have seen something start to boil inside John, anger welling up to the surface of his emotions like steam from a kettle. 

“You-you don’t have time?!” John snapped, hands slamming down on Mycroft’s desk. Even the sudden move didn’t seem to surprise Mycroft, but it served to make him look up, leaning back in his chair. “You don’t-you don’t…” John trailed off into angry laughter, a hand coming to his face. “Mycroft, your brother is _dying_.”

“Yes. I did hear that the first time.” Mycroft watched John warily. 

“And you’re just going to _sit there?_ ” John backed off from the desk, hands going up to his hair. “Don’t you get it, Mycroft, he’s-he’s _actually dying!_ He-he got into his drugs again, the drugs you _told me_ when we met that I had to keep away from him, the opium and the absinthe and the tobacco and he tried to do _all of them at once_!” John spun, hands clenched into fists. Oh, now he was livid, a solid rock of anger standing there with hard fists. “He’s dying. He tried to kill himself, Mycroft. And you wanted to send us away.” John inhaled, obviously trying not to start throwing his fists around. “You were just going to let him-let him die?” 

“John.” Mycroft stood. “You are obviously in no mind to talk—“ 

“ _I’m in no mind?_ ” John was suddenly loud, stepping forward, on the offensive. “I’m not in the right mind? Look at yourself, Mycroft! You’ve got dark circles, you’re getting thinner, I bet you haven’t eaten today, you’re so bloody _focused_ on proving Greg is alive somewhere you can’t see that _I’m not the one out of my mind here!_ ” John was shouting, now. “I’m not the one about to send _my only family_ out into the bloody _cold_ because I don’t _care_ anymore! I’m not the one willing to _kill him_!” 

“John, are you okay?” One of the servants approached John slowly, unsure what he needed to do. 

“No I’m _not okay!!_ ” John turned on the servant, throwing out a finger at Mycroft in accusation. “He was going to let _Sherlock die and I’m the one that’s getting worried over!_ ” John suddenly turned again on Mycroft, hands clenched into fists at his side. “You-I don’t know why I came to you in the first place, Mycroft.” He snarled, approaching the desk. “I don’t know why I thought you were worth seeking help from. You were a good man before he died. Now you’re just a monster.” John snapped. He watched Mycroft’s face shift to something dark, something angered beneath at the surface at the words. 

“I am no monster.” Mycroft defended himself, words dark. They made John laugh bitterly, a palm coming to his forehead. 

“You’re not—you were going to kill him! His blood would be on your hands!” John shouted, loudly. “You’re not the man Greg told me so much about, not anymore. He died with Lestrade and left me to deal with a monster!” John shook his head, watching Mycroft over the desk. After a moment, he suddenly moved, throwing his fist at Mycroft over the desk. It was honestly the first time anyone had tried to punch Mycroft in the face, and he wasn’t prepared to dodge it. That meant John’s first met his face quite firmly, sending him stumbling backwards into his chair. John would have fallen on the desk if the servants hadn’t reacted, too, restraining him from doing it again. 

“Eric.” Mycroft quietly addressed one of his servants, holding his face with a hand. It hurt – John had avoided his nose and teeth, thankfully, but his cheek and eye were surely going to bruise quite quickly. “Fix Sherlock and John a room downstairs. Get him anything he needs.” Mycroft stared at John with a fixed glare that was more unsettling than it was emotional. John shook off the servants holding him, rubbing at his fist. He didn’t say anything, turning to storm out of the room. Mycroft could hear him outside, speaking to Sherlock, telling him about how his brother was giving them a room, that Sherlock would be okay, he promised, and that he promised he’d never let the younger Holmes end up an emotional shell like his brother. 

Mycroft downed the last of his brandy and refilled his glass, draining it quickly. “If you need me, I’ll be interrogating Moriarty.” He told his servant, passing off the glass as he exited. He paused, though, following the sounds of activity down the long hallways of his house. Eventually, he found the room the servants had put Sherlock in, watching them run back and forth from the doorway. He stopped one of them, quietly pulling him aside. “How is Sherlock?”

“Not good, sir.” The servant looked scared to be taking to Mycroft. “He’s in a bad way, sir. John’s trying his best, but he needs rest the most.” The servant watched Mycroft, and when the man didn’t move, dashed off. Mycroft watched him go. Earlier that year the news would have made his stomach churn. It would have set him off his sorts to hear Sherlock had made yet one more attempt on his life and possibly succeeded. But now, instead, it didn’t do much at all. It left Mycroft feeling colder inside than he had before. Had he really grown that heartless, not even caring about his own brother? He knew a part of him was probably worried, but he couldn’t feel it. Maybe that part of him was hurt from Lestrade and didn’t want him to feel both at once. He didn’t remember locking that part of him away, and he remembered everything. It was his own curse. He remembered how the ring looked around Lestrade’s neck the day before he left. He remembered seeing the Duchess in pieces on the shore. He remembered everything. Except the moment when he’d lost all emotional humanity. 

He looked up to see John staring at him. He’d been off in his own world, staring at his ring, thinking, and now John was looking at him like he was a heartless bastard, a snake, no better than the man in the cell down below them. “I don’t care what you want.” John said, voice hard and protective. He was shielding the door with his body, and Mycroft frowned at it. “But you need to leave.” 

“I was just checking on my brother, John.” Mycroft replied, but there was no heart behind it. It disappointed even him. “Is that a crime?” 

“No.” John conceded. “But tossing us out to die would be.” He watched Mycroft warily. “I know you’re not yourself, Mycroft. But right now that doesn’t matter. You’re not getting near him until you’ve sorted yourself out.” John let the message sink in, before quickly retreating into Sherlock’s room and leaving Mycroft on his own in the hallway. 

“Keep me posted on my brother’s recovery.” Mycroft told one of the servants. At the moment, he didn’t terribly care, and that bothered him, but he did it as a formality anyway. As soon as he found out the truth of it all, he thought, heading away from the hall and back towards his study, he might return to normal. He was grieving, he told himself, fetching his coat from the chair. He just needed time and he’d return to himself. He had to.


	12. Those You've Known

John sat up when Sherlock stirred hours later. He had fallen asleep in a chair beside Sherlock’s bed, head resting on the mattress as he slept, and when Sherlock stirred it woke him. He reached over, getting a cold cloth and tending to Sherlock’s brow. The man was a sight when he had arrived, stumbling and confused, stinking of blood and vomit. John had found him like that, sprawled in a chair in their tiny abode in a way John had never seen. “Sherlock, you awake?”

Sherlock made a soft sound, eyes finally fluttering open. “Hasawasabuh---“ He started, stopped himself, rubbed at his face with his hands, and tried again. “Has Mycroft thrown a fit yet?” 

“A fit?” John looked concerned, wiping at Sherlock’s head. He was still burning up and pale, and it concerned John mightily. But it was worse to hear that Mycroft _should_ have thrown a fit. “He didn’t… he didn’t seem to terribly care, Sherlock.” John shifted. “He was going to leave us in the cold. I sort of had a row with him.” 

“You had a row with Mycroft?” Sherlock attempted to sit up on his arms, but he found the world still dizzy and proceeded to lie back down. John put the cloth back, letting his hand linger in Sherlock’s hair. 

“Sort of. He just stood there and I shouted abuse. He didn’t seem to care at all, Sherlock.” John frowned. “I’m worried about him. He hasn’t been the same since Greg died.” 

“He’s in mourning, John.” Sherlock rubbed at his face again, moving to sit up, this time succeeding. “This is Mycroft Holmes, John, don’t be an idiot. He was never cuddly before, do you not remember? Mycroft is naturally made of ice.” Sherlock leaned back against the pillows. “I will admit his lack of concern is a little startling, but I’d say think nothing of it.” He shifted, giving John room to crawl in bed beside him. 

“I did punch him in the face.” John admitted, shifting to lie beside Sherlock, basking in his warmth. “I sort of got a little angry and punched him in the face.” He looked up when Sherlock chuckled a little at the words, confused. 

“I have never heard someone admit they have punched my brother in the face. Normally he has quicker security than that.” Sherlock smiled. “Consider yourself among the few, John, and be glad he didn’t have you arrested.” 

“I’m glad he let us stay.” John said, softly. “You were worrying me. Don’t you dare do that again.” John crossed his arms and sighed. “You sure he’s going to be alright?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock murmured. “He’s been through worse.”

~*~

Mycroft knew he looked bad, walking into Jim’s cell. His face was a little purple, he was thin, tired, dark eyed. But Jim looked worse. Jim was bruised all over, with split lip and broken ribs and nearly swollen left eye. He’d been had at by the officers recently and hadn’t finished healing, but that manic grin was still on his face. “Are we feeling up to talking today, Jim?” Mycroft asked, trying to ignore how much wider the grin got seeing that his eye had been blackened. 

“About what? Someone taking a swing at your face?” Jim purred, shifting in his seat. Mycroft glared at him, and he giggled. “Oh, you’re extra testy today. I’ll keep that in mind when I stay quiet, then. Knowing how touchy you are.” He watched as Mycroft circled the table, staring him down. 

“You’re talkative today.” Mycroft drummed his fingers on the table, perching there lightly. “That’s a good sign. Now, you know what I want from you.” Mycroft didn’t smile. He would have smiled had he done this before. Now he just felt bad in general – today wasn’t a good day on its own, to be perfectly honest – and he couldn’t even find it in him to fake a smile. Jim seemed to notice. 

“Not feeling well?” He purred, leaning forward. “Look, pet. Since you’re having such a _bad day_ ,” Jim frowned, babying him in voice, and Mycroft’s grip on the table tightened a little, “I’ll cut you a deal. You tell me things, answer my questions, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.” Jim leaned back in his seat. “You first. How did that happen to your face?” 

“I was punched.” Mycroft was alright with admitting that, looking very unfazed by the comment. “I will admit in hindsight I probably had it due me, but that is beside the point.” And oh, a weak chuckle, there it was. He was so close to his answer, so close he could taste it. He could force a chuckle or two. 

“Mm. Who punched you?” Jim grinned. “Oh, how’s your brother? Getting on _famously_ , I’d imagine?” His grin was wide, devilish, like he knew what had happened, and that erased any small smile or hint of the chuckle from Mycroft’s face. 

“John punched me. And no, Sherlock is not getting on _famously_.” Mycroft frowned. “Though he’d be rather disappointed you’d proved such a… simple adversary. Beating you just by telling you a few things here and there.” 

“Oh, you’re not beating me.” Jim shook his head. “I’m being kind. Tell me about your brother. How he is, what he’s doing.” 

“He’s… bedridden, at the moment.” Mycroft’s lips went tight. He’d been told news that morning. Sherlock was doing better, awake and coherent, but he was still bedridden, prone to dizziness and the occasional convulsion. John was keeping a watchful eye on him. “But he is being well cared for. If I say anything else I am afraid I will be breaking his privacy.” Mycroft shifted off the table, passing behind Jim’s chair. “You know him, you know how hard it is to earn his favor.” 

“I know him a little.” Jim rolled his shoulders in the best shrug he could manage. “Let me guess – he hurt himself somehow.” Jim watched Mycroft stiffen and knew he’d hit close to the mark. “Ah. Upset, is he? Your poor Commodore wearing on his last nerves? Not so used to this, is he?” Jim’s head shifted, side to side. “Tell me about your home life.” 

“No.” Mycroft supplied, perching again on the edge of the table. Jim tutted at him in reply. 

“Spoilsport. If you want my answers, you have to comply to my deal~.” He half sang the words, smiling broadly. “How was mummy and daddy?” 

“Father was a merchant sailor.” Mycroft sighed. This was not information he wanted to give up, but at this point it didn’t matter. Moriarty would hang for certain after this incident. There was little reason to keep the information secret. “Mother stayed with us. Father would be gone for months at a time. I always looked up to him. If I wasn’t so prone to getting ill from the sea I would have followed him.” Mycroft drummed on the table again, looking to Jim, but the other was urging the story on. “Sherlock was better with our mother. He fancied the pirates he met in town, when he was a lad. Free heralds of the open seas, he called them. Mother hated it.” Mycroft stood again. The duration of this was beginning to make him uncomfortable and he looked to Jim to see about stopping. He was uncomfortable, of course, because he realized he had very little control over the course of conversation and it bothered him immensely. Jim knew this as well, and was hanging it over Mycroft’s head every chance he got. 

“Mm. A mother’s boy. Go on.” Jim purred, silky sweet, and if he didn’t have what Mycroft had spent months searching for, the man would have stopped talking. But he kept on. 

“Mother worked, too. In a tavern.” Mycroft paced to the far wall, back to Jim so the other couldn’t read his face. This was for Greg, he reminded himself. This was all for Greg. “One day, Father didn’t come home. His ship was found nine months later, floating in dead water.” Mycroft stood stock still in the corner, but he could feel the grin on his back. He remembered that day well, the one where they found his Father’s vessel. He’d given up hope that day, that he’d ever see his Father again. It happened all the time, men getting lost at sea. 

“So you’ve had this happen before.” Jim hummed, leaning back in his chair. “No wonder Sherlock’s upset. Tsk tsk, I should have done my research.” Jim laughed, and Mycroft turned on him. He wasn’t angry, no, or emotional. He was so cold he was radiating it, and that had Jim shutting up momentarily in sheer shock. Mycroft Holmes was an imposing figure in the worst of ways when he was angry like that. 

“I’m done talking.” Mycroft said, hands behind his back. “It is your turn, now, Jim. You’re going to tell me what I need to know.” 

“Or what?” Jim’s head shifted again, terrifying in its inhuman qualities. “What if I’m not done, hm? You’re lost without me, you know. I know what you want to hear from me.” He giggled. “You know I could lie, correct? That I could just fancy up a story to sooth your little ears?” 

“But you won’t.” Mycroft said, sharply. “You won’t, because the reaction I get from the truth is more fuel for you than anything else. No matter what you say to me, the knowledge that you aren’t lying will impact how I react and you will get more enjoyment out of that than seeing me react to a possible lie. Because if there is hope and you lie, I will foster hope anyway, and if you bring despair you will want to see it on my face.”

“When they said you were as intelligent as your brother I nearly didn’t believe them.” Jim grinned, predatory now. “Good, good. You’re a worthy opponent to play, Mycroft Holmes. This little game of ours has been quite fun. Even the part where you sent your little goons after my hide.” Moriarty leaned back, sighed, smiled. “And I know you know what’s coming. But I won’t say it unless you ask it, and nicely. Just because I’m willing to tell you does not mean I’m going to say it to a frown. Come on, Mycroft. Smile at your failure.” Jim purred. 

“My failure.” Mycroft didn’t smile. “Explain.” He snapped. 

“You want to know what happened on the docks that day, don’t you?” Jim sat up, leaning on the table, hissing at his ribs shifting uncomfortably. “Want to know what happened to your beloved Commodore. And you’ll find out. You’ll get to see exactly how you _failed him_. But only if you smile.” 

The smile was forced, fake as can be, a simple lifting of lips baring teeth, but it was enough for Jim, who laughed at the sight. “You look so unhappy with that smile.” He chided, shaking his head. “But you’ve been a good boy, so I’ll tell you. We were in Singapore, of course. They’d been chasing us since Africa. We caught wind that your little Commodore was heading back to the ship, so we followed him. The crew that was there proved little problem – my first mate is terribly handy when it comes to surprise slaughter, you know, best in the British Isles and all that.” Jim chuckled, putting his face on his hands. “Your poor dear was so confused when he stepped on deck. He’s not bad with a sword, either, but we put him out well anyway. Tied him up. Gave him a little taste of your medicine.” Jim leaned back, gestured to himself. “He was quite fun. Made all sorts of little noises. You should have been there, you might have liked them.” Jim opened his arms, expecting a reaction, some sort of involuntary jump at the idea, but the words didn’t elicit a reaction from the stony faced Holmes, so Jim continued. “Then, for giggles, we lit a fuse to the gunpowder and left him there. You can imagine what happened next. Boom, boom.” Jim crossed his arms. 

“You left him on the ship as it exploded.” Mycroft repeated. 

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. Your Commodore was indeed on that ship, and if he escaped that blast God have mercy on his soul because he wouldn’t have survived long with what I did to him. You should have heard those ribs cracking.” Jim giggled. “But to answer your question – yes. Your Commodore, Commodore Greg Lestrade, is _dead_.”

And there, there were the words Mycroft had been waiting for. There was no other way to prove it. Greg was officially dead. There was no body, nothing but his coat and hat and ring, and now straight from the horse’s mouth there were the words Mycroft had been dreading. Greg was dead. He had been in the explosion, he had been in bad shape, he couldn’t have survived. He was probably floating on the shore of some distant island. Mycroft didn’t say a word. He didn’t seem to react, at least on the outside. But inside, well. Everything he’d worked for, spent months trying to gain, was gone. All the truth was laid out in front of him as best he could make it, and there was nothing else to do. Quietly, to Jim’s disappointment, he left, closing the door behind him. 

“Sir, are you alright?” A servant asked. There must have been a stronger line to Mycroft’s frown, or maybe it was the defeated sag of his shoulders, or the servant was simply observant to Mycroft’s ways. “Shall I make you some tea?” 

“Yes, yes. Tea.” Mycroft paused. “No, no tea. A drink. I need a drink.” He nodded. A drink would set him right. Get his head in order. Then, he thought to himself, he could work on what to do next. 

“Of course sir. If it isn’t too bold, what did he say?” The servant asked, softly. Mycroft turned to her, face expressionless and frowning. 

“Greg Lestrade is truly dead.”


	13. Never Gonna Give You Up

It had been officially a year since the incident. Twelve months ago that day, the _Duchess_ , one of England’s best naval ships, had been brought down in a harbor off Singapore, taking the lives of several crewman and one very beloved Commodore. Mycroft touched the letter in his pocket. The sky was overcast that day, threatening rain, storms rolling in the distance off shore. The gravestone in front of him was beginning to get a little worn, still chipped and cracked and as awful as it was when they bought it months earlier. He sighed. 

There were no more avenues to explore at this point. His biggest lead, Jim Moriarty, had said himself that Greg Lestrade was dead. That man had been the one to light the powder magazine inside the ship, causing the explosion, and he was sure of the Commodore’s death. Singapore had offered little clues, and the crew had offered nothing as well. There was nothing left, nowhere else to look. Mycroft could feel his middle thinning, his face drawing in closer. His fingers barely held their rings. He wasn’t sleeping, eating. He had realized he had to stop this. There was nothing else to be done. 

“Gregory.” He told the headstone, taking the letter out of his pocket. It was the last letter, and he’d been saving it. He’d finished the rest months ago, keeping this one tucked in a book on the shelf in his study. It had been labeled _Mycroft_ , not _Mr. Holmes_ , and Mycroft knew it would be special. He fiddled with it. “I know I told you I would only read this when I gave up. I am not saying I am giving up.” He touched the gravestone reverently. “I am only putting my search to the back burner. I have nothing left to explore, Gregory, at the moment, and in a sense I am… quitting.” God he hated that word, hated that he had to say it. Quitting implied failure. “But if I hear news, know I will never be done searching for you.” He patted the gravestone. 

The letter was popped open with a quick slide of his finger, and he withdrew the note inside. It was a shaky scrawl, different than the others, the ink slightly smeared from age and water damage. He cleared his throat. If Greg was out there in the ether, he might want to hear this, Mycroft told himself. He might want to hear Mycroft read the last note aloud. That, and reading it aloud made it final. He couldn’t lie – he’d read it. He’d absorbed all the words and read it straight out. 

_Dear Mycroft,_

_Look, I know I’m not supposed to be writing you this kind of letter. I’m not supposed to be so revealing and everything, but for once can you just assume you’re the only one that reads your mail and let me get this out? Then maybe you can, I don’t know, burn it and claim it never happened. But I need to write this. I’ve been feeling ill lately, not myself, and I need to get this out. I can’t keep up a cheerful façade for the boys if I don’t, and they need me chipper more than anything now._

_I miss you. Yeah I said it. I miss you. I’m a bloody seaman and the sea is driving me mad because every day I spend out here is a day I’m not on shore with you. You’ve got me on a chain these days, you know. You can’t come with me and I can’t stay with you and it’s going to drive me insane before this is all said and done._

_I love you,  
Greg_

_PS. I’m teaching you to swim._

Mycroft chuckled at the end of the note, taking in the fact that he would never learn to swim now, and something in him sank deep. This was it. This was all that was left of Gregory Lestrade – a headstone and a date. Not even a body or a tiny patch of land that every main claimed when they died. Just a headstone. It was a little pathetic. Mycroft wished there was just a little more. He lingered there, hearing another soul approaching him on the soft grass, the other’s footsteps slightly offset and odd. He didn’t want to turn, to show his face to a stranger when his guard was down and the finality was striking him so hard. 

“Sorry, did I interrupt you praying?” The voice was soft, hoarse, grating – but familiar. However a lot of the voices in the town seemed familiar to Mycroft, if vaguely, so he didn’t think much of it. 

“No, no.” Mycroft shook his head, still staring at the grave in front of him. “I was just… reading a letter.” He looked at the letter, putting it away in the envelope, noticing his fingers had the slightest of trembles. 

“I heard.” The voice had a smile in it. “Sounds like a good man, whomever wrote that. That his gravestone?” The voice didn’t wait long for an answer, assuming a correct guess of _yes_. “You sound like you miss him a lot.” 

“I do.” Mycroft nodded. “I miss him terribly. He was taken from me too, too soon.” Mycroft straightened, lifting his head from where it had been staring at the envelope. “He was a good man. A very good man. The best man I have ever had the opportunity to know. I do not think I will meet a man again in my life that I cherished as much as I cherished his friendship.” Mycroft shifted. It was getting a little too close to the truth of the matter as he spoke, but at this point he didn’t mind. Greg was dead. There was little a person could do with that scandal without speaking ill of the dead. “He will be missed, by more than just me.” 

“Yeah.” The voice lost its smile, the footsteps hobbling forward a step or two. “Mm. Good to know.” And there was that smile in his voice again, and Mycroft finally turned. What he faced was a man a little shorter than he was, leaning on a crudely made crutch. His face was dark and dirty with tan and dirt and mud and age. He had scabs and scrapes all along his face, stubble on his jaw. His eye was obviously swollen under an eye patch. His hair was gray, shaggy, untrimmed and dirty. His clothes had once been decent clothing, Mycroft could see, but had been worn and wet and dried in mud, ripped around the elbows and the knees. He had no shoes, feet bloodied and dirty. Everything was bloodied and dirty. His free hand was tucking into a rough sling of cloth, and his leg supported by the crutch was twisted in an odd direction. And that smile, it was big, and missing teeth, and the most recognizable thing about him. “I missed you too.” 

Mycroft stared for a long moment, honestly surprised. Here was the man he was so sure was dead, standing before him, beaten and battered and bruised and looking as though he’d crawled from the grave itself. Here was the man he’s missed and mourned and fought for, grew thin for, forgot how to live for, and he was standing there with a cheeky grin on his face. Greg opened his arms as best he could while supporting himself. “What, not gonna give me a hug hello? Thought you’d be pleased to see me.”

“You were dead.” Mycroft said, looking the man over. Was he dreaming? He stepped on his own foot discretely – no, no he was not dreaming. He was perfectly awake and Greg Lestrade was standing in front of him and while the man was certainly _not okay_ he was breathing and laughing and _there_. 

“Yeah, certainly seemed like I was. Good thing you were wrong, though, eh?” Greg hobbled forward a step, unable to put weight on his right leg at all, and the grass made walking difficult. “Come on, Myc, I want a hug and I can’t get over there so you’re going to have to come to me.” Greg said, and Mycroft obliged, stepping forward. He was unsure how to hug the man, as everything seemed broken, but Greg didn’t let him hesitate too long. The Commodore’s arms wrapped around Mycroft’s neck, and Mycroft’s arms found their way around Lestrade’s waist, and for the first time in a year Mycroft felt at home. He let his head rest against Lestrade’s neck. He still smelled like Greg always did, under the smell of a year at sea and dirt. He smelled like salt water and sweet beach shade and it nearly put Mycroft to sleep right then and there. 

The hug didn’t last long, as Mycroft noticed Lestrade’s face, buried in the crook of his neck, was contorted in pain, and Mycroft quickly let go, only staying close enough to support Lestrade. His crutch had fallen over and Mycroft was sure the other would fall without assistance. Lestrade shook his head, laughing softly, as Mycroft pulled away from him. “I’m okay, I’m okay.” He said, but he knew from looking at Mycroft that the other didn’t believe him. “I’m just a little sore, it’s okay.”

“Gregory.” Mycroft smiled at saying his name. It felt good to say it. It felt good to hold him, even if it hurt him. Because it meant he was alive and he was here. He was here and he wasn’t dead. “Come now. You’re more than a little sore. You have an eye patch.” Mycroft chuckled. 

“You have to admit its bloody fantastic looking on me.” Lestrade replied, laughing. He leaned on Mycroft heavily, looking tired after a moment. “It’s good to be home.” He said, smiling broadly. “It’s bloody good to be home.” He sighed, letting Mycroft support him. Mycroft nodded, liking the feeling of the weight in his arms. He hummed at the comment. 

“It is good that you are home, Gregory.” He said. “I have a carriage waiting to take me home. You should come with me.” Mycroft nodded. “I can get the servants to run a bath for you, let you clean up and get proper medical attention. Unless you have someplace else to stay, of course.”

“Mycroft.” Greg shot the other a look, a cheeky grin on his face. “I just got home from spending a year trekking across the continent of Asia on foot, donkey, camel, alpaca, and horse. No, I don’t have anywhere else to stay, and even if I did I would prefer to be with you all the same.” Greg chuckled. “I see you got my letters.” 

“They all came at once. Along with your coat, hat and ring.” Mycroft held up his hand. “Let me replace the chain and you can have it back.” He watched Lestrade smile, laughing with relief. 

“Oh thank _God_ that ring isn’t lost at sea.” Lestrade murmured, lifting up Mycroft’s hand with the ring and kissing it softly, tenderly, mostly for the sake of his own lips. “That bastard Moriarty ripped it from my neck. I thought it would be lost forever.” 

“Thank Anderson.” Mycroft let his fingers be kissed systematically. “He found them. He also purchased your headstone.” 

“I thought so. I thought you’d go for a different aesthetic.” Lestrade chuckled, leaving the fingers for a moment, staring up at Mycroft’s face. They were so close, body to body, mostly because Lestrade needed the support. “He’s a good man, Anderson.” Lestrade licked his lips, wetting them slightly. He shifted. “I’d ask for a kiss good morning and all, but considering you didn’t want to give me a kiss goodbye and my mouth probably isn’t the most fragrant thing this side of the Atlantic….”

“Gregory, hush now.” Mycroft put a finger to the man’s lips, smiling. “I cannot oblige that request if you keep talking like that.” At that, Lestrade nodded, shutting up quickly. They’d never kissed before, and Lestrade’s lips were a mass of split places and touches of purple, so it made the movement that much harder. Mycroft leaned in slightly, just barely pressing their lips together, and was unsurprised when Lestrade deepened the kiss, leaning into him heavily and ignoring his own bruised lips for the feel of the kiss. It was warm, and slow, and they parted a moment later, a lazy smile on Lestrade’s face. 

“That was better than I imagined it.” He said, softly. “And I’ve had a lot of time to imagine it.” He hummed. Mycroft was smiling at him, and they stood there, arms lightly around each other – mostly for support – warm and happy. That was, until it started raining. The rain came hard and fast and quickly soaked them both, making Lestrade laugh. “Alright then. I think God wants me to bathe.” Lestrade chuckled, shirt soaked through. He was thin under the white fabric, thin enough for his ribs to show beneath the wet shirt. 

“Yes. And then you’re getting a good meal.” Mycroft added, slipping out from under Lestrade’s arms momentarily, long enough to grab the crutch. He returned to his position, supporting Lestrade under his arm, letting the man lean as much as he needed to. 

“Oh, that sounds fantastic.” Lestrade chuckled, hobbling beside Mycroft as they made their way towards the road and the carriage. “Haven’t had anything proper in ages.” He smiled. “Oh, and Mycroft?” He paused, making Mycroft stop too, and his face was open and smiling, but grateful. “Thanks. For not giving up on me. Would have been awful to return to nothing ‘cause you gave up.” 

“I would never give up on you, Gregory.” Mycroft nodded, helping the other to the carriage. “I can promise you that.”


	14. Checkmate

When they arrived back at the house, Mycroft had to support Lestrade inside, both of them soaked through by that point, leaving the crutch in the carriage. They hurried into the study like two school boys escaping the rain, Lestrade laughing gaily. “So, how’s everyone?” Lestrade asked, finding a seat in a chair momentarily, Mycroft’s breathing slightly heavy from the effort of dragging Lestrade through the door. “I mean, besides thinking I’m dead.” He chuckled. They had spoke none of anyone in the carriage, basking in each other’s presence and taking in that Greg was indeed alive. But now they were home he was interested in how everyone else was. Was Sherlock alright? John? Anderson? He was worried about Sherlock and Anderson, mostly. 

“Sherlock is… resting.” Mycroft’s face went steeled again, and Lestrade knew what that meant, but he didn’t say anything about it. He would find out what went wrong in time. He didn’t want to press Mycroft into speaking before he wanted to. “I should actually go speak to him. I may have been a bit of a cold brother to him recently and I feel as though I should apologize.” Mycroft sighed, pacing a little, dripping on the carpet. “Oh, and I should speak to the servants about turning over Moriarty.” The thought was soft, afterthought, and Lestrade perked at the name.

“Moriarty is _here?_ ” Lestrade forced himself to his feet and nearly toppled. Mycroft was on it quickly, supporting him with a frown. His catch nearly had them both over, and he didn’t like it.

“You should be sitting.” Mycroft chided, brow furrowed, but he was greatly ignored. Lestrade didn’t sit, looking at Mycroft with a sudden anger Mycroft hadn’t expected. Lestrade was fueled further than Mycroft could expect the half dead man to reach, and it was obvious in his face. However, it was rightfully placed, and Mycroft sighed. “He’s in a basement cell, if you want to call on him, but I suggest you sit before you hurt yourself.” 

“I want to talk to him, I’ll be fine.” Lestrade said, trying to move forward, but he was unsteady and Mycroft pushed him back to sitting. “Mycroft, I need to talk to him. I won’t touch him. I won’t let him touch me. I just want to talk.” 

“Fine.” Mycroft eventually caved, putting a hand to his face. “I’ll let the servants escort you downstairs. You have as long as it takes me to speak to Sherlock, then I’m fetching you.” Mycroft shook his head. “Then you’re having a bath.” 

“I can do with that.” Lestrade nodded, trying to stand again. “Deal.”

~*~

He hadn’t expected Lestrade. He thought it was Mycroft, back again, back to make him change his words. Jim shifted, excitedly, but that simply vanished when the man entered. Disheveled and limping, escorted, but alive. “You’re supposed to be dead!” Jim snapped. No, this was not good. He was supposed to be dead! It was a sacrifice! His pawn had to be dead to win the game. 

“Funny thing about that.” Lestrade said, sitting down, propping his arms on the table. He was grinning his missing toothed grin. “I’m not. Surprising, isn’t it?” 

“How did you survive?” Jim growled. He hated how things were unhinged. He hated it, hated this feeling. Hated seeing Lestrade’s smug grin from across the table. It meant he’d done something wrong. 

“I’ve been told sheer dumb luck.” Lestrade grinned. “But that’s beside the point. I just wanted to drop in and tell you something.” Lestrade chuckled. “You remember your game?”

“How could I forget?” Jim gritted through his teeth, clutching at the table. Lestrade was at such ease around him and Jim was so tense, it was like a table of opposites. “What about it?”

“Well, you said I was a pawn. Now, I’m no expert at chess. I know there are pawns and kings and queens and those castles and horses and those other little pieces. And I know you kill all of one side to win. But I didn’t know much else.” Lestrade sighed. “So when I was working my way home, I got someone to teach me. I got terribly bored, you see. A year avoiding the sea and subsequently, you, is a tiring thing.” He shifted to his feet, using the table as a crutch, and stepped around to Jim slowly. “And I learned something. You know what I learned? That pawns can become Queens.” He grinned, leaning down in Jim’s face. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” Jim wanted Lestrade out of his face. He wanted him dead. His plan had failed. He wanted Lestrade dead to hurt Sherlock and Mycroft. Now, they would recover. The win had been stolen from him. He had lost. 

“Well, Jim.” Lestrade’s words grew angry, clipped. “You tossed this dead little pawn to the side thinking the game was done, but what you didn’t realize was you just tossed him to the end of the board. I climbed to my own feet and became a Queen, and now there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” And oh, that was a threat, a real threat, a good and hard threat, a threat of hanging by Lestrade’s hand, and if Jim were any other man he might be scared. 

“Don’t be fooled, Lestrade. I have my own Queen left.” Jim replied. “You haven’t vanquished me just yet.” Jim grinned, but he knew he’d already lost his chance. Now his only game was to escape with his life, and faced with two Queens and nowhere to go, the King was stranded without his defense. He watched Lestrade stand, moving around the table slowly. 

“We’ll see how much help your Queen is to you, Jim.” Lestrade said, standing in the door. “Oh, and by the way.” He chuckled. “Check.”

~*~

Mycroft didn’t want to wake him. John was out, doing something, leaving Sherlock alone. Sherlock was sleeping, or at least looked to be so. He looked so childlike when he slept, like he did when he was still a baby. Mycroft didn’t want to wake him. “I am not asleep. Please don’t hover.” Sherlock said, finally, sleepily, and without opening his eyes. 

“I didn’t want to wake you. You need your rest.” Mycroft found a seat and sat, softly. He watched Sherlock sit up, mouth tilted in a slight frown. So fresh from sleep, he looked so young. It reminded him of the morning he had to tell Sherlock their father was dead. It didn’t sit well with him. “But I have something to tell you, and something to ask.”

“Ask first.” Sherlock murmured, rubbing at his face. “I would rather save the new information for when I am better at processing and I guess your question is probably simple and relating to my situation at the present.” He looked to Mycroft, hands resting on his knees. Mycroft looked back at him, knees crossed on the chair, looking for all the world like a disapproving parent. 

“You were not, as John asks, trying to kill yourself, correct?” Mycroft asked, softly, curtly. Sherlock chuckled, looking at his knees. 

“That is only technically a question.” He replied. “But no, I was not. I understand where John might get the notion, but I was not making an attempt on my life.” 

“Then why in God’s name did you take so many of your drugs at once?” Mycroft was slightly exasperated, putting his head in a hand. Sometimes he didn’t understand his brother. 

“It was an experiment.” Sherlock replied, softly. “I was doing an experiment, and it backfired. Some experiments do that, Mycroft.” Sherlock didn’t seem to like having to say it, his voice hard and clipped like his brothers, but more emotional. 

“What experiment were you doing?” Mycroft was curious now, soft, because this was a delicate admission for Sherlock and he needed to know to make sure the man wasn’t lying about trying to take his own life. It wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock tried. Mycroft was sure the pirate thing started as an attempt, to be frank. 

“I wanted to see if taking a quantity of mind altering substances would make this business with Lestrade’s death simply become a nightmare in my mind.” Sherlock admitted, grumpily. “It didn’t work.” 

“I would think not.” Mycroft sighed, standing. “Please for the love of all things Holy, don’t do that again.” He sighed, rubbing at his face. Lestrade was either waiting for him or already done – he needed to go. “Though I have a better cure for it than your experiment.”

“What?” Sherlock sneered. 

“Greg is alive.” Mycroft smiled, for the first time in Sherlock’s presence in a year, and Sherlock smiled in return. “I’ll let you know when he’s ready to have visitors. He’s in a bad way at the moment, but he’ll be alright in the end. Do pass along the word to Anderson for me, would you? I have my hands full.” Mycroft chuckled, heading for the door. Sherlock nodded, relaxing back in bed. Mycroft pretended not to hear his joyous shout as he shut the door, letting Sherlock have that moment to himself. They all needed those moments, now and again. 

~*~

The water was hotter than he expected. It felt awful against his many injuries, but the rest of his skin took the heat in stride. Lestrade was naked in a metal tub in the kitchens downstairs, sinking slowly into the water of the bath with soft gasps as it encountered new skin. “The water will cool down quickly enough, Gregory, don’t complain.” Mycroft said. He was in just his shirt and trousers, having stripped the rest to avoid them getting even more wet. 

“It hurts, though.” Lestrade chuckled, wincing at the water on his feet. “I haven’t been this bloody warm in ages.” 

“You’ll be cleaner than you have been in ages I imagine, too, when I’m done with you.” Mycroft said, softly, rolling up his sleeves. He quietly pulled up a stool to the tub, taking a soft cloth and wetting it in the water. “What did you do all year, roll in the mud?” 

“More or less. You haven’t trekked across Asia on an alpaca. They toss up all sorts of dust.” Lestrade muttered. He watched Mycroft start on his feet. It was almost hypnotic, watching him work. Mycroft was so gentle, tracing the cloth over his skin, wiping away the mud and dirt and salt and sand. The cuts burned under the hot water, and his ankle protested the action, but Mycroft was gentle and quick about the washing. “Did you know alpacas _spit_?” 

“I did not.” Mycroft chuckled, working his way up Lestrade’s leg, running his fingers over the tanned skin, the bruises and the cuts, washing them softly. He paused at his knee, kissing the kneecap softly, before moving onto the other leg. 

“Aww, not gonna go any higher?” Lestrade teased, relaxing in the water to let Mycroft get at his other foot. 

“No.” Mycroft chuckled. “I have priorities. I’m not going down there until it’s sparkling clean, thank you.” He smiled, shooting a glance at Lestrade, who was flushed under the grime. “Besides, every man treats his own differently. A father teaches a son what to do, not necessarily how to do it.” 

“You know you had me in the palm of your hand, then you got all bloody philosophical and lost me again.” Lestrade sighed, dipping down lower in the water. “Bloody hell you are your own ice bath.” 

“You’re welcome.” Mycroft chuckled, slipping the stool up to start on Lestrade’s chest. He traced his muscles with the cloth, wiping off layers of grime. “I am more focused on the level of dirt you’ve amassed.”

“I worked at it.” Lestrade quipped back, lifting his head to let Mycroft wash his neck. “I’d tell you I could wash my own face, but I like this too much to complain.” He murmured. He was like a dog being petted, slowly falling asleep as Mycroft washed him. The man was careful with Lestrade’s face, tracing the strong jaw, the span of his forehead. He carefully touched at his swollen eye, making Lestrade wince. 

“I have to wash it.” Mycroft said. “I’m not leaving your eye dirty just because it hurts.” He sighed, dabbing at it again, and Lestrade eventually controlled his face. Eventually, his face was clean, but Mycroft found himself stroking it anyway, liking how it made Lestrade’s face shift in pleasure and comfort. “I am glad you are home.” Mycroft said, softly. 

“Mm. Sentiment shared.” Lestrade didn’t open his eyes. Eventually, though, Mycroft pulled back, standing, and it made Lestrade look up. “What, leaving so soon?” He was met with the cloth hitting his chest softly. 

“I’m off to fetch your clothes. You finish washing.” Mycroft chuckled. “Someone has to help you dress and put you to bed.” 

“Oh god, I get to sleep in a bed?” Lestrade seemed extremely excited about the idea, and finished washing himself as quickly as he could, not paying attention as Mycroft disappeared for a moment. When the man returned, the water was cold. Mycroft helped Lestrade out of the bath, helping him dry off before sitting him down on his stool. 

Mycroft was no medical man, but he dressed the cuts and bruises the best he could, wrapping Lestrade’s leg tightly and redoing the sling his arm was in. He placed bandages on his face and put a bit of cloth over his eye so the eye patch wouldn’t shift in the night and bother him. Once that was done – and Lestrade was nearly asleep from the tending too already, poor thing – Mycroft helped him stand and dress in clean linens from his closet that were a bit too big. Neither of them cared, however. Mycroft needed help leading Lestrade to the downstairs bedroom. The man was already mostly asleep, dead weight on Mycroft’s shoulders, head lolled against his shoulder and neck as they walked. 

Lestrade was flopped on the bed, quickly snuggling beneath the covers like it was an involuntary motion. He looked delighted to be down there, even with his foot protruding from the side and his arm wrapped in its cloth sling. Mycroft let him be, quickly changing into his own nightgown. He paused at the edge of the bed, looking back at the door. He should, for priorities sake, sleep in his own bed. But Lestrade looked inviting and comfortable, and he was here, alone. No one would know. They would just be careful. 

Slowly, he closed the drapes, then shut the door, locking it. With that done, he slowly crawled into bed, letting his arms find Lestrade’s thin waist and settle there, hearing the other make a small noise in his sleep. This was certainly more comfortable than ever sleeping alone. He would just have to be careful, that was all. 

“Glad you joined me.” Lestrade muttered, still half asleep. Mycroft chuckled. 

“As am I, Gregory. As am I.”


	15. And In The End

When he woke up that morning, he didn’t want to leave the bed. That was a good thing, as he really couldn’t leave the bed without assistance. Lestrade didn’t care, though. He laughed it off, laughed off needing help to piss, to get back into bed. He felt good, for the first time in a long while. 

It didn’t help he’d woken up next to Mycroft Holmes, a sight he hadn’t expected to be greeted with for years and years to come. Watching him there, he felt at home. He traced the line of his hair until Mycroft woke up, stirring softly. It was comforting in the bed, twined together like that, warm and safe feeling. “Good morning, Myc.” Lestrade murmured. 

“Good morning, Gregory.” Mycroft sat up, yawning. He was going to add something, but there was a knock at the door. Oh, right. He locked it. Quickly he jumped up, unlocking the door for the servant standing there, looking frazzled. Apparently the servant was woken from his sleep as well. 

“Sir, Lestrade has visitors. Apparently the word got around that he’s alive, and, well, I didn’t want to turn them away, sir.” The servant chuckled, yawning. 

“Go on and let them in.” Mycroft dismissed the man, going to get dressed quickly. He was only in trousers and shirt when there was the sound of footsteps quickly on the wood floor. It sounded like the running of a cat or the pattering of a child, but it was in fact Anderson that burst through the door first. He was disheveled – no one seemed to have woken naturally this morning – and half dressed, and was followed by the small child from the funeral. 

“Commodore!” Anderson looked delighted and relieved to see his leader sitting up and somewhat well, and it showed in the way he bounded over to the bed, tripping to his knees and returning to a sort of bent over kneeling position quickly, grasping at Lestrade’s hands like he might vanish. “You’re alive!”

“Commodore!” The child was excited, too, almost rivaling Anderson’s sheer joy, and he crawled onto the bed quickly flopping beside Lestrade and hugging him tightly. Lestrade was laughing, overjoyed at the greeting, surprised at the show of affection. 

“Hullo!” He chuckled. “Anderson, it’s alright. I’m alive, calm yourself. It’s okay.” Lestrade reached up to pat the man’s face. “I see you’ve more or less adopted the stowaway into the crew while I was away. You had fun getting taken care of by Anderson, Oliver? Hm?” 

“I missed you Commodore.” The child gurgled, and Lestrade had to laugh. Oliver was their resident stowaway, but Lestrade was too kind to remove him from the boat, so he had stayed. No one else knew the boy was in fact a stowaway, but apparently he had been promoted in Lestrade’s absence. Anderson flushed at the comment, too overjoyed to feel guilty.  
“Alright, alright. Both of you, just breath for a moment.” Lestrade chuckled. “You’re like a bunch of bloody puppies.”

“Well put, Commodore. Anderson almost piddled on the carpet and everything.” Sherlock’s quip from the doorway brought attention to the final two visitors standing there. John was smiling, heading over to the bed to greet Lestrade a little less overly excited than Anderson had. Sherlock remained in the doorway, standing by his now fully dressed brother. 

“I see you told everyone.” Mycroft said, straightening his waistcoat. 

“You should be glad I didn’t tell them in the middle of the night. Anderson would have jumped into bed with you both.” Sherlock replied, smiling at his brother. Mycroft didn’t smile back. 

“Good lord, you all look like you’d never see me---“ Lestrade paused. “Okay, never mind on that.” Lestrade laughed. “Oliver, Oliver slide over.” Lestrade spoke as he shifted the child half in his lap to the other side, leaving an open space to his left. “Come back here, Mycroft. Didn’t say you could leave me yet.” He laughed. Mycroft sighed, heading over to the bed and sitting down on it, a little ways away. “No, you cheeky git. Get in here.” Lestrade motioned with his elbow, and Mycroft eventually slipped over, nestling in the space beside Lestrade. “That’s better.”

“It’s like a happy family photo.” Sherlock said, the only one outside the circle. “Two fathers, a young son, an older son, an uncle.” 

“And you’d be the photographer, then, Sherlock?” John asked, standing. He shook his head. “Alright, alright. I know we just got here, but Lestrade is injured, and I can’t in my right mind let you all fawn over him when he needs to be resting.” 

“But we just got here.” Oliver whined. John lifted him off the bed, holding him on his hip. 

“I know, Oliver. But let’s think of it this way – the Commodore just woke up. Let’s go back to Sherlock and my place, have breakfast, and go for a walk. Then we can come back and the Commodore will be more awake, fed, and probably a bit better rested.” 

“I like this idea.” Lestrade chuckled. “While I appreciate the hug pile, I would love to speak to you all out of this blasted bed.” He nodded, watching Anderson stand as well, pulling at his clothes. “Besides, none of you seem fully dressed besides Mycroft and John. Let’s all have clothes on next time, yeah?” 

“Alright. I’ll go. But I’m doing this for you.” Anderson crossed his arms. He and Sherlock were in the same room still, and while they had bonded, the look Sherlock was giving him wasn’t helping matters. John rolled his eyes, escorting his charges towards the door. 

“Children, all of you. Oliver is the most well behaved of you bunch and he’s eight!” John said, laughing. He turned to the two on the bed, shaking his head. “I’ll send someone to call before we come back next time, yeah?” 

“Thank you, John.” Mycroft smiled, watching them go. Finally, they were alone, and he sighed. People took it out of him. From the way Lestrade was leaning back against the pillows, it took it out of him, too. “They didn’t wear you out, did they?” 

“It was great to see them all.” Lestrade said, slipping down to put his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. “But bloody hell it is like dealing with children, isn’t it? Wears me out.” He chuckled, yawning. 

“Mm.” Mycroft put an arm out, letting Lestrade lean into him. “Well, I don’t mean to wear you out further, but I must ask – how did you survive?” It had been prying at him since Lestrade had returned. Every odd said he should be dead. By logic, he should be dead. And he wasn’t. And it bothered him. 

“The whole story?” Lestrade asked, and at the responding nod, he sighed. “Alright. It’s not as grand as you might want it to believe. They had me tied to my chair in my study. When they left, I worked a hand free of the ropes, and managed to undo the knots. I didn’t have long, but I grabbed your package and ran for the window as soon as I was free. I didn’t quite make it. The blast launched me out the window. I lost your package in the water. I don’t remember much after that.” Lestrade shook his head. “Next I remember I’m floating with the figurehead, no land in sight. Blood miserable, that was. Exposed, bruised. Eventually I washed up God knows where, and the natives almost thought me a God themselves. Lucky me there were English speaking natives. I told them what happened. They helped me get a little fixed up and sent me off with a caravan heading for Europe. I switched off with traders whenever I could to keep going. I walked on foot, rode a camel – it didn’t like me all that much – an alpaca – spat at me, the fucker – and a horse. Eventually, I got to Paris, somehow.” He didn’t need to mention that he didn’t eat much, or sleep much, while traveling. “I had tried to avoid the water, just in case Moriarty was still looking for me. I didn’t want him to find me, as he’d do me in proper for sure. But when I reached Paris, I had to cross the channel, so I hitched a ride on a merchant heading for the shore. They caught me, bloody traders, but I explained I just needed a ride to the English shore and they took pity.” 

“That ended you up here.” Mycroft said. “I remember we had French traders in the area a few days ago.” 

“I stole off their ship and hobbled my way up here. They gave me the crutch.” Lestrade nodded, sighing. “I spent the entire journey blood scared out of my mind. Every ship I passed was that bastard pirate there to hang me. Not everyone was nice. I spent part of the journey a prisoner, but having nothing to offer to them, they let me go. Hurt my ankle on the alpaca when it spat at me. They’re big, you know that? Big and mean. Well, at least to me. Guess they thought I looked unfriendly.” Lestrade chuckled. 

“Well, Lestrade. I am glad you managed to trek your way back.” Mycroft smiled. 

“Everyone said it was sheer dumb luck keeping me alive.” Lestrade muttered, softly. “I don’t know though. I think it might have been something else.” 

“What?” 

“My will to see you again.” Lestrade smiled. Quietly, he leaned up, giving the other a kiss on the cheeks. “I told you, I was coming back. I don’t break promises, Mycroft. Not when They’re to people I love.” 

Mycroft smiled at the gesture, softly stroking Lestrade’s hair. “I’m glad, Gregory. I am very glad indeed.”

~*~

 

_Dear Mycroft,_

_I’ll still be here when you get this, I bet. I just wanted to write you again. Did you know you look precious when you sleep? You like to bury your head into the pillows and you snort when I poke you. I’ve missed you. I know I’m back and I’ve been here for a while, but I can’t help but remember those months I was gone and I can’t help but miss you all over again. So instead of missing you, I’m going to curl up with you and kiss your nose. Because I can._

_I love you,  
Greg_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, folks! There might be a sequel later, but for now, you have reached the end. I hope you enjoyed it~!


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